


The Void Devours

by Lavender_Whalebones, OneWhoTurns



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Conflict, Consent, Empress Emily Kaldwin, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fighting, Human Outsider (Dishonored), Plot, Post-Dishonored: Death of the Outsider, RP, Romance, Sacrifice, Saving the World, Smut, Supernatural Elements, The Void, Touching, UST, emsider, it's the end of the world as we know it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-04-17 16:10:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 64,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14192745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Whalebones/pseuds/Lavender_Whalebones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneWhoTurns/pseuds/OneWhoTurns
Summary: His time was coming to a close, and he had one last request before it ended. The smallest mercies can have the gravest consequences.[Pre- to Post-DOTO Emsider]





	1. A Request

**Author's Note:**

> [Due to the nature of multi paragraph "novella"-style RP, the formatting of this story is a bit odd and stilted, with staggered reactions between sections, but it doesn't exactly lend itself to a merging of narratives. In other words: not to be rude, but I'm not gonna go through nearly 90 pages (and growing) of writing in an extensive edit.]
> 
> [OneWhoTurns wrote for Emily; Lavender_Whalebones wrote for the Outsider.]

There was something heavy in the air tonight and it wasn't just the daunting knowledge of his impending demise weighing on his shoulders. Rarely did The Outsider consider what the world around him _felt_ like. He did not think to feel, only perceive. He did not think to see, for he already understood. Even if he thought to see, he would view through muddied waters, cracked glass, fragments of his humanity. But the idea of the end put a new perspective on things.

Emily's study was different. The coup had changed it. Not that it wasn't clean and tidy, but the coup had changed the whole of Dunwall Tower. Something was different, even if everything had been arranged to how it had been before. The presence of witchcraft lingered and the Void scratched at the surface here, where it had been prominent only months before. It was like a wound in the fabric of reality that was only just now healing, sewing sinews of what once was back together to create a patchy tapestry that he knew he wouldn't be alive to witness in all its tattered glory.

He dragged his finger along one of the two glasses he'd brought out from beneath the desk, shimmering and intricate. It was a brandy he'd chosen. Not that he could really taste the stuff. A Tyvian vintage. He knew Emily's schedule like the back of his hand. And it was right around this time that she'd sit down at her desk and grumble to herself over piles of paperwork. But he hoped she could entertain him for just one more night.

* * *

It was the same every day. Constantly papers, and ring kisses, and being told how not to speak to people and how not to offend anyone and - oh don’t even mention all the bloody signatures. Primarily construction, rebuilding all that the coup had destroyed, but there were also budgets and schedules and approvals of delegations to the other Isles…

Emily straightened her back, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. _Calm._ The day was nearly over. Now she was free of the constant buzz of surrounding advisors and attendants and... She breathed out. Free of the crowds. On her own. Just another night of the joy of being an empress.

That thought brought a small wry smile to her lips. What a joy it was, truly.

Regardless: now, at least, she would be alone. And she could take off these damned gloves.

Into her suite, door closed, gloves off -- it was a ritual she’d begun to cherish the longer she had to hide her Mark. It itched to be free. She traced the pattern idly with her free hand as she turned to her desk-

“ _Fucking hells_ -” She cut herself short, a hand raised to her her chest in surprise. _God of the Void_. It was - well, the god of the Void. ...Why? Her eyes shot to him, immediately suspicious. She found it hard to speak at first. He always did that to her - or maybe it was just the aftereffect of the Void, stealing her focus and making her mind wander to mystical and entirely incomprehensible planes. It left her speechless.

She shook her head, trying to clear the call of the Void, and leveled her stare on the black-eyed god, voice steady, if a little on edge. “Why are you here?”

* * *

Against the warmth of the flickering shades cast outwards from the fireplace and the candle lit on the windowsill, and the shimmer of little crystal glasses, he contrasted greatly. His form always tugged at the shadows he sat against. They licked at his boots and accentuated his figure, aiding in the air of mystery that typically followed him wherever he went. But here it was just odd.

Here was a boy -- no, of course not; here was a _god_ , sitting against her desk with a bottle of brandy and two cups at the ready. His expression was no different than the one he wore between those brief escapades trudging through Serkonan back alleys, running into the pale lavender glow of whale lamps lining wooden shrines. But he could not see himself. His reflection was a blur to him, he could not determine the way he appeared to her. So in that way, there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

And perhaps just the slightest bit of nervousness as well.

"My my, dear Emily Kaldwin, it's a surprise to hear such foul language from an empress. I wonder what the members of the court would think, how they'd react if you made such a slip in their presence. Would they frown upon you? For being human? Or would they laugh and scoff in that posh way so characteristic of upper nobility?" He leaned back on his hand, dark brows furrowing thoughtfully.

* * *

Seeing the Void god in her own quarters was astounding to say the least. She opened her mouth once, as though she might say something, but nothing came to mind, and she closed it soon after, forehead creasing in befuddlement. The last time she’d seen him anywhere other than the Void he’d given her the _way-too-powerful-to-bestow-upon-a-25-year-old_ tool that allowed her to move between times.

Not that the other powers of her Mark were any more appropriate. She glanced at her hand as it itched again, and found it faintly glowing. It irritated her. His patronizing tone didn’t help.

Half of her felt the need to roll her eyes at his statements. _Cryptic bastard._ Then again… She straightened her spine, raised her chin, put on her Empress face. “You’ll excuse me if I’m a bit…” She debated the right word. “...Crude.” Her lips pursed, eyes sharp as they fell on the god again, and her words were the slightest bit sardonic. “I only ever seem to see you when you need me to dispose of someone.”

Her eyes flicked over his form, looking for any kind of clue, but she found nothing unusual. If one considered the flecks of Void echoes and smoke to be the “usual.” What she _did_ find odd were the glasses set before him. Two of them. Her head cocked to the side almost imperceptibly. Was he expecting another guest, or was this some kind of elaborate introduction to whatever her next mission might be? Surely he wasn’t just… offering her a drink? No, that would be… Just the thought of it made the corner of her lips twitch. Ridiculous. Truly ridiculous. The Outsider himself sitting down for a drink in the private quarters of the Empress of the Isles. The most blasphemous of events, truly.

* * *

The Outsider’s eyes glanced over her figure, amusement flickering over his features for a moment. He even almost chuckled, though the sound wouldn't have escaped him, for he felt no need to breathe. It would have been odd and rigid, stiffly opening his mouth with the corner of his lips curving upwards and leaving him with a silently stupid look on his face, as though he'd braced himself for a sneeze that just didn't quite get the message and left him hanging there, waiting. So he stared at her instead, unblinking, almost deadpan as he poured them both a considerable amount of golden liquor.

" _Dispose_ wouldn't be quite the terminology I'd use. Perhaps... _proposition_. Which, in that case, you would not be wrong in assuming that I have come with yet another _proposition_ in mind. Though this one is different, admittedly, requiring far less skill, far less perception, agility -- all of the things that ready you for combat and keep you steadfast on your feet." His gaze turned downwards and his fingertips traveled along the length of the desk but he did not feel the texture. His motions were slow, smooth and oddly sensual.

It was something he craved. The sensations lingered, memories swimming aimlessly through his mind. He knew what it should have felt like: rough on the bottom, smooth along the top where it had been so carefully polished to Tower standard. But he did not experience it, not through his own right. He felt something stir within him, as he always did when he pondered over that particular loss. Anger. He'd come to recognize it as a bitter frustration, he could not change the past but the past had changed him. Irreparably so. He turned his gaze back up to her, but hidden in his features was just the faintest traces of trepidation.

* * *

Emily’s eyes flicked from the Outsider, to the glasses, and back to the Outsider. His black stare was intense. She’d be lying if she tried to claim his gaze was comforting. But she didn’t exactly dislike it, either, oddly enough. It reminded her of the smoke that would curl around her when she and Wyman shared a hookah. Something dark and mysterious - forbidden - and disturbingly sensuous. She felt shivers down her spine, and covered them by taking a few counter-intuitive steps toward the Void god.

Reflexively, an eyebrow raised at his chosen verbiage. “You’ve come to proposition me?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, her lips closing soon thereafter, breaking eye contact as she internally chided herself. Her fingers twitched, eager to reach for a glass and immediately forget she’d ever mentioned that phrase in context. But she hadn’t been offered a drink and she certainly wasn’t going to reach for it like some common sot. She would hold her peace, no matter if her ears were starting to burn. No - back straight, chin up, there were no mistakes. 

So instead of taking the glass, she watched his hands. He seemed to take an unusual amount of interest in the polished wooden surface of her desk, fingers skimming and caressing it. The more she watched his hands, the more she thought his motions obscene. She swallowed self-consciously and returned her eyes to his just in time to catch his glance as he looked up once more. There was something off about the way he looked at her. It was so hard to tell with those endless black eyes, but something was different and she was sure of it. Her brow furrowed briefly in confusion and determined curiosity, before she blinked it away. No. It wouldn’t do to pry into the lives of gods. That couldn’t end well for anyone. Still… she couldn’t help the touch of curiosity that still lingered at the edges of her mind. 

And still more she wondered: why was he here?

* * *

There were several beats of silence but his voice wasn't what broke it. He slid the glass across the desk in front of her, as to draw her attention to it. He never looked away from her though, a strange sensation bubbling in his chest. But something was better than nothing, and when you had only days to _live_ , risks were to be taken.

For the first time in a long while, he was conscious of the way he moved, putting effort into his motions, and spending a little less time thinking about Emily's, even if he was intensely aware of her presence. Her dark almond eyes, her loose strands of hair framing her boldly structured face... her womanhood. He stiffened and forced himself not think about that.

Forced himself to speak.

"The Void is greedy, it laps up anything that comes within its grasps, hungrily devouring the cosmos one star at a time, until one day, every light in the sky will have been ravaged and consumed." He'd always been blissfully ignorant of his sensuality, the way he had with words, the way he phrased things, though methodical, often suggestive.

"... But most of all, it is starving for representation. It craves a figurehead to speak for it, to shower people in its presence and invade reality with slick slippery tendrils coalescing...  curling around each and every vestige it can creep its way into... I satiate that desire, for now. Very soon it will search for something else... once I have been properly _displaced._ " He spoke with a bit of caution, skirting around his words, cagey, cryptic as always.

"The Void did not take from what I did not experience. It did not rob me of my life, and I cannot blame it for what it did not do. I cannot blame anyone for perpetuating the course of fate... There were things I did not have the privilege of understanding. Though hardships aplenty, my life before... as I can recall it... was difficult. Cold, numbingly so. The people around me watched in disdain as I withered away on street corners. But what I saw was love, as abundant as the soil beneath us, but priceless in value. I do not desire much. What I proposition... is a taste." His eyes flickered down to her lips before he brought the glass up to his own, sipping the contents, his hands shaking very faintly.

* * *

Emily’s fingertips tingled in the heavy silence before he spoke, shaken by the tension, but she was far too aware of her own movements to allow even something as simple as rubbing thumb and forefinger together. He was staring at her - no, _into_ her - those eyes seeming to invade every inch of her body. She was grateful when he slid the glass to her, taking it perhaps a little too quickly and sipping immediately. Sweet. Just the slightest burn on the back of her throat. Deceptively delectable, but she knew too much was a recipe for disaster. As she sipped she watched him carefully, waiting for him to explain himself.

He only seemed to have a brief moment of partial relaxation before his body went rigid, and she found that instant somehow profoundly sad and beautiful. Just a moment of rest before he was swept up in these cosmic forces once more, returned to the place of a god again. For just a moment he’d practically been human. But then he spoke, his voice weaving tapestries both rich and ominous, words dripping over her and sinking into her very bones, and she was left in awe. As his warnings of the universe’s inevitable collapse flowed over her skin she felt them, tight and hot, constricting her chest with an eerie dread.

How did he keep his tone so steady, his attitude so circumspect, even as his words lit on her skin like sparks? He ignited something in her, and the evenness with which he dealt that condition bothered her greatly. She found it hard to keep track of his intentions, too focused on words that crept into her ears, drawing images inside her eyelids, every blink putting her someplace else. And she knew this was important, too. She could tell from his approach, the way his lips formed the words so carefully, choosing each so purposefully - and yet this too was her undoing.

It took a moment for his words to truly sink in, past all the talk of craving and slickness and satiation. _Very soon it will search for something else..._ She felt suddenly jarred, her fingers tightening on the glass in her hand to stop their sudden tremor. He was leaving? Was he - he couldn’t - the Outsider surely wasn’t _dying_. Her head spun as he went on, breath becoming shallow, trying to keep track of his tale even as the words danced and melded into one another in her head, twisting their meanings into some sensational lewd melodrama.

Emily’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, focusing her breathing, focusing her mind, calming herself so she might hear the Outsider’s words. Truly, his story was heartbreaking. He’d told her some of it, before - in a way - but these details… She stared at the golden liquid in her glass, swallowing hard, her chest aching with sympathy. Part of her yearned to fight - he gave up so easily, so resigned to this fate - but she knew she could never truly understand the Void and all of its whims and intricacies. Still, there was a fire in her. Even as her breath trembled, something inside her raged and swore and promised to rain down fury on whoever it was that would do such a thing. Even if it was the Void itself.

She blinked rapidly, unsure if the tears she held back were tears of anger, grief, or desperation. Maybe none of those things. Maybe all of them. But they wouldn’t fall. She wouldn’t allow them to fall. She pursed her lips determinedly. A piece of her viewed him as _hers_ in some way. Her connection to the Void, perhaps. The one who showed her things she had never imagined, and gave her powers she never should have wanted. And now someone threatened her -- her… her Outsider. How dare they. She’d had her world yanked away from her once already, she wouldn’t let it happen again.

She felt that fire growing in her heart -- useless, she knew, and yet eternally hopeful. When she finally caught his eyes, hers blazing with this strange desperate fear, she caught just his last words. . _..A taste..._

“I-” Her voice was hoarse, overwhelmed by this flood of information, and she took another quick gulp of the drink in her glass, flinching a bit even as she tried to ignore the burn, and licking her parched lips. “I don’t-” she looked down at the drink in her hand. “I’m not sure I understand.”

* * *

He watched her unwind but found that the way his words touched her were not as satisfying as it once was. The way he could unravel her, inch by inch, seam by seam, it was physically visible now, the influence he had. And he knew that much, as he peered in on her day to day life, as nosy and intrusive as he typically was. He knew lots of things, he knew absolutely nothing at all.

He stood suddenly, upright, not floating nor dissipating and reforming, but walking, stepping forward evenly, his eyes penetrating the depths of her being, searching, seeking for _something_ even he could not determine. A part of him yearned for something he knew only she had. He supposed that part of him was hidden deep beneath layers of stone as black as charred obsidian, the human part of him that howled in despair and relief simultaneously at the idea of dying.

He fell into wispy fractures and appeared behind her only mere moments later and something white chimed in his hand. It was a comb, made from the bones of an ancient leviathan. It was intricately carved with careful attentiveness and a strict attention to detail. It hummed with the song of the Void like most of the "heretical" artifacts.

"... May I, Emily?" His voice was hardly above a whisper and held hidden beneath it a quiet desperation. Her hair was long and fell down her shoulders in waves of dark coffee hues, but only at night did she release it from its tight placement. He would watch her then, taking pins and ties and setting them on her vanity before retiring to a bed far too large for just one person.

How lonely she must have felt each passing night, tossing and turning on a massive mattress. He couldn't help but wonder what it might feel like to occupy the space beside her and watch her drift into unconsciousness. But he nearly immediately disregarded the thought, placing a single hand on her shoulder, bracing himself for any possible reaction. He knew she was a firebrand, it was only in her nature to put up a defiant front; passion ran through her veins.

But he also knew who he was, and how much the Empire loathed him. He often wondered if Emily loathed him in that way. If she felt a hatred for him that was fueled by blind prejudice, and if so, he wondered if it were as intense as the hatred she felt for Delilah, or for the man who stole her mother away that awful day in the Month of Harvest.

Suddenly it mattered. Everyone else in the Isles could hate him, despise him, curse him to the very depths of the Void. But Emily Kaldwin could not. He couldn't stand the concept. He couldn't accept that.

* * *

When he’d taken his first steps forward, she’d tensed, breath gone from her lungs in an instant. It reminded her of the Void all over again, and she did as she had done there: kept her chin up, shoulders back, confident even as blood roared in her ears. When he disappeared she froze, and her head snapped to the side as she caught his reappearance in the corner of her eye. She couldn’t turn toward him, even as she willed her limbs to do so. Her feet were frozen to the floor. Her body thrummed -- whether resonating with the energy of the Void or simply trying to contain her suddenly frantic pulse, she wasn’t sure.

His soft request sent goosebumps racing across her skin. Her eyelids felt heavy and it took a concentrated effort to keep them open, so tempting was the urge to close them and enjoy whatever images now danced at the edges of her consciousness. She was a live wire, all sparks and crackling current, and surely if he touched her he would feel it too -- her pent up energy would burn through him, surely, it felt so tangible and so dangerous.

And yet, it didn’t. His hand on her shoulder caused no flash of light, no crack of pain though her - just the small click of her mouth opening in surprise, a gasp that was strangled in her throat, back arching ever so slightly, unsure if she wanted to be closer or farther from him. The Mark on her hand, still glowing softly, caused her no pain but she felt as though it whispered things to her. Dark things. As though it had reached into the furthest recesses of her mind and now let those thoughts flow in a hot stream through her veins, urging her on.

She had to keep her eyes open. If she let herself indulge these thoughts - these images - she would have no control whatsoever. No. She wouldn’t sate that hunger. Not here, with him. She must keep her composure. …And still, a practically morbid curiosity ached in her, and she found herself setting the glass aside to reach with one hand to undo the pins holding her hair in place.

* * *

Everything he had done in the past twenty minutes had been extremely out of the ordinary. Every move he'd made, down to the monologues slipping from his lips like strung silk. But it was imperative that she knew. That someone knew before he faded into nothing. He had accepted his fated demise, but he could not accept that everyone would remember him as one of two things: a heretical temptation, or a perverse thing to worship.

He couldn't accept that all the fractured remnants of his humanity would die with him, for what was a man without a legacy? And what was a legacy if no one witnessed it?

This would be his legacy, here in this office, booze burning at the back of his throat, a gentle hand reaching up to collapse against Emily's like soft flower petals, preventing her from continuing on her own. Instead he guided her, unpinning her hair and watching it drop in waves, eyes widening just faintly at the sight.

He was curious, but there was another sensation burning within him that left that still human part of him seething.

He eyed the faintest traces of skin behind the wall of soft strands, reaching up to run his fingers, chilled but not to an uncomfortable degree, through thick brunette locks, knuckles brushing against the back of her neck. He took the comb, nestling it downwards from the top, slowly raking it through, watching like a child admiring a small bird on the windowsill.

"The whole Empire would bend to your will now. Not out of fear, but a deep respect for everything you've experienced. The child empress, a girl no longer, but a woman who fought for the right of her people, without leaving a trail of blood and scraps of sinew behind her. And now she stands here, speechless, dumbfounded. It's almost amusing." His voice took a tone that it had only ever taken once before.

With a little boy whose nose was fractured and gushing crimson ichor, whose bones were fragile and hands trembling in the icy cold. Back then he had spoken to a little dove with broken wings, whose time had ended before it began. But now he was that dove, limping across the pavement, resting his head for one final sleep, and he spoke to _her_ now, almost pleading, but unnervingly calm.

A hum escaped him. Not slow enough to be a lullaby but not quite fast enough to meet the beat of a waltz. It was eerie, layered in whispers of eternity.

* * *

His bare fingers brushing hers sent a skittering thrill through her body that hadn’t been there on her clothed shoulder. Her Marked hand throbbed briefly, as though called to this being that even now stood so patiently at her back. Emily felt as though she were in a dream. It was surreal and all too eerie, the play of his fingers through her hair. She expected breath on her neck and felt none, the fact making him seem more of a ghost than ever. Still, as he explored this new sensation, she was touched by how innocent this small request had been.

Her hands dropped, one to the desk and one to her side, nervously playing with the hem of her sleeve unconsciously. His attentions were calming, nothing like what she’d expected of this odd entity. She very nearly relaxed, but his fingers brushing the nape of her neck made her suck in a quick breath, hand tightening on the edge of the desk. Silently scolding herself, she chewed her lip, her muscles tense even as she ordered them to submit. Her body didn’t seem to want to obey her mind, and that made her uneasy.

The comb stroking steadily through her hair immediately reminded her of when she was much younger. These days, she only ever had tower staff help her with her hair for special occasions, much preferring to be self-reliant and do such tasks on her own. But when she was younger, with her mother… And when her mother had died - been killed - there were days as a young empress when a caretaker would soothe her troubled sleep with a horsehair brush and soft cooing lullabies. That didn’t happen anymore. On those nights when her sleep was troubled there was no one to come in and stroke her hair, rub her back, envelop her in comforting arms… And she, of course, refused to ask.

As his movements continued, her body warred with her calming soul - even as her eyes drifted closed again - until finally her muscles yielded, her chin tipping to her chest, her head leaning in to his strokes. Her hand on the desk flexed unconsciously, and as his words slid over her she listened with serene but rapt attention. He praised her even as he marveled at her weakness, and the sentiment left her uneasy, for reasons she couldn’t quite place. She wanted to refute him, but his words were true enough. She was, indeed, speechless.

But there was something more in him, something she couldn’t quite parse from his words and tone. _What else is it you want?_ Because there was surely something else. There was something in his voice - something hollow, empty - that yearned for some unknowable something that she couldn’t envision. A small crease appeared in her brow as she tried to unravel his speech, dissecting the lilt of tones, but as his hum reverberated through him, through the comb, straight into her, she found herself distracted again. Shivering. She could hear the Void on him. More so than in speech, the timbre of his hum echoed with refracted shadows, shards of stone and the fog of aeons. It called to her, raising her pulse, filling her lungs with the idea of ozone and slate, and she found herself turning her head toward him. Not enough to dislodge his steady strokes, but just enough that she might see him from the corner of her eye.

* * *

His expression wasn't as steady as his words. His brows were curved down and furrowed together, not in anger, not even in concentration, for his gaze while planted mostly on Emily seemed to drift a bit. As if he were viewing the whole universe along the tender strands he combed through. He could recall nights not long ago, where he'd watched her from the recesses of the Void, watched her stir from her slumber gasping for breath, laying in bed staring distantly at the ceiling, lost in thought as the whole world tumbled around her. Those silent moments, even in their brevity, made his being ache. Not only with the usual emptiness that riddled him but also with a firm longing to comfort her, to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. He wondered how she might react if he did.

But ultimately he decided that was unimportant now. She had a whole life ahead of her. Full of suffering, the grandest of enjoyments, love and hate and all of those tedious little things that made a person human. But he? He was a god. And a god was far less than a man. He was immortal and yet his time was running out.

He slowly set the comb onto the desk, his movements careful but lacking in the cold, hollow method that they usually had. Each step he took was centered on her, his attention was entirely and completely hers as of right now.

Once he'd finished he did not move. "There are some things that even after all of these long years of watching and waiting in the shadows, even after witnessing the cruelest of actions and the most sublime generosities, I still do not understand. The minuscule details that are so crucial to _living_ escape me. And it is simply because I never lived long enough to come to understand them for what they are. I know of men of the highest caliber that shudder at a woman's touch, I have seen the High Overseer himself make haste to his hidden chambers only to share a night with a woman he hardly knows. Risking his career, his reputation, all for the sweet blissful release. Betraying everything he's ever been taught just for a night. And I've pondered if perhaps it's the self destructive nature of man that leads them into such intimate situations. But I've come to the conclusion that it isn't something I am worthy of knowing." He ran the back of his hand down her arm slowly, still standing behind her, his words hitting the back of her neck like a chilled breeze.

"It's a level of intimacy that I could never experience even now, one that I could never ask you to mimic. It would be an outlandish proposition, so it is not mine. But what I wish for are impossible things. Impossible, hysterical little things that you may even find yourself scoffing at. I yearn to feel the sun, beaming down against my face from between the cracks in the drapes that line the windows, I yearn to feel a pulse when I raise my hand to my chest, or to another's-" He appeared in front of her, eyes searching over her features desperately.

His tone fluctuated, sought something, it was clear now what he was feeling; it was fear. He was scared.

His hand settled just below her neck and he slowly shook his head, "I yearn to grasp at those tiny details I never understood, for the more that I see the more that I hunger, the insatiable desire entangling me, if I could breathe it would have choked me by now. It's a bittersweet asphyxiation, reminding me that I am still _something_ , which is better than the alternative, is what I've come to believe," he rambled on, but that calm facade he shrouded himself in had shattered completely.

* * *

Emily watched his hands gently setting the comb aside, and her own fingers twitched, seized by the sudden urge to reach for his, to still his hand, feel his skin against hers. But twitch was all they did, staying where she grasped the side of the desk perhaps a bit too tightly, grounding herself. Her lips parted as though she might say something, but nothing came to mind. And then his hand had withdrawn, and the moment had passed.

She listened to his words, still staring at the discarded comb. He’d seen everything, she realized. She’d known it already, but the way he spoke now -- he hadn’t just _witnessed_ everything. He’d _seen_ everything. Watched and examined and observed all the base nature of man. As he went on, she felt a blush rising in her chest. She felt silly for it, but her breath was hot from her parted mouth and she soon felt the need to moisten dry lips, the motion only serving to remind her of the very things that made her blush to begin with.

She wasn’t ashamed of her sexuality, by no means, but that wasn’t what had her skin flush and tingling abashedly. No, not the deeds she’d done. She didn’t regret a single stolen kiss or night spent with a lover. No, she blushed as she realized that, if he’d borne witness to these events, he very well may have seen her wanton acts as well. It wasn’t just sinful overseers tempted into bed by the promise of a woman’s touch.

He had her mind wandering, and feeling his hand trail down her sleeve she suddenly wished that no sleeve parted them. She wished to see his eyes when he witnessed the goosebumps erupt on her skin at his slightest touch, as they did now. Her shoulders shifted, back once more arching at the tingling feeling on her neck, nails digging into the palms of her hands. He claimed he’d never ask her to indulge any of these small intimacies… Was he aware of how he tempted her with the thought? Her own curiosity imagining how he might -- how he might look beneath her. How his skin might feel on hers. How he might taste. She blinked, trying to clear these idle fantasies from her mind. Her errant mind…

Her guilt only deepened as he spoke of his own wishes, so sweet and innocent and pure, and she was the one - him, the Outsider himself, yet _she_ was the one - imagining grander sins.

When he appeared before her, her face was warm, eyes bright, lips parted. She blinked in surprise, but didn’t try to hide. He knew her for what she was, for better or worse. And she was flawed. His touch was cool, but not cold, even against her flaming skin, and it made her throat jump and catch, swallowing hard in response. Her attention shifted between his eyes and his lips, watching each word form with care. She needed to get a hold of herself. She _wanted_ to get a hold of _him_.

She forced those feelings away, though they never went far, and brought her touch to his, grasping his hand between her own and looking down at where their skin met, even as she swayed toward him, drawn in by some gravity only he possessed. Questions exploded in her mind - _When would it happen? How would it happen? Who would do it? How long did he have? How did he know? Was there a way to stop it?_ \- but above all of those things; “What can I do?”

* * *

He grinned, genuinely, lips curled into a soft, sad little smile. Emily Kaldwin always sought out an enemy to defeat. She searched desperately for the origins of her problems and most of the time there _was_ one person, or multiple even, who were the cause of said issues. But he supposed it ran in her blood, like the Serkonan hues of her skin, the flecks of gold in her eyes, her collarbones and long neck and dips and curvatures of her figure, all genetic.

He thought back to the bad old days, the days where men bled from the eyes and rats gnawed on bodies yet to be sent off to a landfill in the flooded district by carts on electric rails. The determination in Corvo's eyes, the raw, primal way he hunted down those who'd wronged him. Sometimes shedding blood, others times avoiding it. Perhaps it was genetic, an Attano thing, to catch the Outsider's wandering gaze.

His breath had a scent, not unlike the sea, but there were hints of wildflowers, vanilla candle wax. Altogether it almost smelled sweet. Like a toffee, or a hard candy of some sort. His eyes found her hand in his and it brought him some odd sense of comfort. Everything was most certainly not going to be okay, in fact, it likely wouldn't be much of anything at all. He could imagine a vast nothingness, the escape of death. No more pain, no more fear, confusion, all of the Void's negativity and every small remark muttered under the breath of a city guard on patrol.

He finally turned his gaze up to hers again, "There is nothing you _can_ do, nothing anyone can do. Everything has been set into motion. The cogs are turning, the machine is on. What I ask is... undoubtedly the most selfish request I've made of you yet, and I have made plenty. Especially where you're concerned." He reached up and brushed a bit of hair from her face. "I ask that... I..." He struggled to find a way to phrase it, finding that the words were caught in his throat, they wouldn't escape, swimming aimlessly without any clear direction. He leaned forward, staring down at her lips, concentrated, cautious. "I ask..." he lingered, tilting his head to the side just slightly, lids lowering, "...for a moment's... time..."

His lips were cold, like the majority of him, inexperienced, nervous, apprehensive. At heart he was still a boy who knew of sexuality, but never had the chance to experiment with his own, who'd seen people doing awfully sinful acts but had only briefly been accustomed to his own touch, and that was only very rarely when he felt safe and alone enough to put himself in such a vulnerable position. So here was a god, less than a man, aged by the Void with all of the world's wisdom as nervous and inexperienced as a schoolboy, sharing a kiss with the Empress of Isles. No. With Emily Kaldwin. He could go accepting that as his legacy.

* * *

The Outsider’s smile was something she never thought she’d see. It was bizarre and intriguing and it’s sadness sent an aching pang through her chest. A sense of dread crept upon her as he spoke, her head shaking minutely, sensing his conclusions even before they dropped from his lips. No. He couldn’t say there was no way to stop this. She’d done impossible things before. She could do this, if he’d just _let_ her. The anger - the futile drive - flared in her briefly, but was quickly extinguished. She held tighter onto his hand, pleading silently that he could give her something to do, that he could lie to her, tell her that she had a chance to stop this, but she knew it wasn’t so.

Frustration and despair warred in her hollow chest, even as guilt nagged at her, reminding her that he’d come here because he trusted her. Him - a god. He was entrusting this last futile gesture to a young woman twice deposed, who’d twice now reclaimed her throne. And as he lost his… he came to her. She supposed there was some poetic symmetry to it: a relationship that began with a death, to end with one.

Her eyes closed, pained, as he brushed the hair back from her face, and when they opened they burned with a desperate sadness. Her lips parted as he leaned toward her, eyes closing as though she might shield herself from the inevitable loss tomorrow would bring. She inhaled with a shudder as his lips rested a hair’s breadth from hers, tasting the odd mix of man and Void she’d never quite be able to describe.

Her lips were gentle against his, initially thinking she’d let him set the pace before realizing his uncertainty. So instead she led, one hand still holding his while the other cupped his face, drawing him to her, breath escaping between their lips before she pressed against him once more, unconsciously taking a step toward him as she coaxed his lips open with hers.

If the air off his skin was indescribable, there was no possible attempt to be made for the taste of his mouth.

She tried to form coherent thoughts, but her body could only feel him, pressing into him desperately even as she tried to hold herself back. She wanted to be gentle, but it wasn’t just him that was driving her mad -- the Void was intoxicating, and it filled her. She overflowed with some supernatural hunger, needing more of him, feeling the smoke of the Void filling her lungs. _More._ Her hands trembled, feeling a rush of stone in her blood, her ears echoing with whale song. Was this why witches claimed to lay with the Outsider? The desire to feel this unrestrained power devouring them?

It was so much -- too much. It swept her up in crashing waves and took all she had to pull back, stumbling, her knuckles white where she still held his hand. “Sorry-” she gasped, the hand that had cupped his cheek now grabbing the edge of the desk in surprise, knees weak. If she’d seen her own reflection she may have been horrified, black beginning a thin map of the veins in her neck, a small wisp of smoke dripping from her lips. Her pupils had nearly eclipsed her irises, blinding her until she could blink them back to their regular state. Truly, the Void devoured. “I’m- I’m so sorry.” Her voice was hoarse, broken. She trembled before him as her body readjusted, shocked.

* * *

It wasn't _good_ in the traditional sense of the word. It was different, it was the faintest lingering fragmented idea of what he thought a kiss should be. The closeness alone was enough to satiate his desires. His lips entangling with hers, hands settling themselves onto her hips and pulling her closer, pulling her into his being. He could feel the Void swarming around them, wrapping them both in its decaying embrace. He felt like for the briefest of moments they were one, a single entity nestled on a rock hurtling through space. Only him and Emily. Only their lips, their hands, their souls.

He hadn't even noticed the heat, the passion, the drive that Emily's humanity pushed forth. He was focused on the sensations he _could_ feel, rather than the movements or the reality of the moment. He focused on the way she tasted for instance, lips sweetened with the Tyvian brandy, and the warmth that resonated from her quickening breaths. The warmth of _her_ against him, even with the clothing that separated them.

It wasn't enough for him, he realized. He was an insatiable being, never would it be enough, no amount of kissing, frottage or sex would ever be enough to satiate his hunger. He wasn't starving for her sex he realized, he wanted her companionship. He was selfish, he wanted _her_. He ached to experience these little pieces of life that most took for granted with her.

He stared at her, hair disheveled, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. His hand gripped the edge of the desk and the shadows around him waned, for just a few seconds his eyes, his real eyes shone through the inky black. Pale green peering back at her before the Void swallowed them and left him back where he started. "...Thank you," he murmured quietly.

* * *

She blinked, still disoriented, brow furrowing as she looked with confusion into his eyes. She could’ve sworn - for just a second - but then they were blackest black again. She must’ve imagined it. She turned to lean her hips against the desk, wanting to just collapse into her bed, but a part of her worried about that course of action. She didn’t want him to join her. He terrified her, she realized. No not him, not the Outsider, but that _thing_ that lived in him. That he lived in? That thing that made him who he was. The Void. Raw power that consumed even as it was consumed. A vicious thing. She knew better than to invite something like that into her bed.

When she licked her lips she was relieved to taste more than the impossible essence of the Void, still tasting that odd hint of sweetness that had been unique to the Outsider himself. It did a lot to ease her rattled mind.

She looked back to him, arms wrapping around herself without even realizing it, a wary sad curiosity slowly reigniting in her gaze. “...So what now?” Why did she ask? Surely, the answer would only hurt her.

* * *

He did regret it now. Coming here, doing _that_ , leaving her with the horrific memory and the lingering sensation of the Void enveloping her. That feeling of being torn apart piece by piece by raw, unfiltered power. The universe had attacked her for a split second, and he had let it. He turned on his heel and recollected himself, eyes downcast in shame.

But he tried to remain stoic, he tried to pretend as though it hadn't happened. He would hold it together, if not for himself than for her sake.

"... I'll leave you here. And perhaps you'll forget tonight, you'll forget the sound of my voice. Perhaps you'll grow old and you'll recall nothing. Or maybe you will remember every minuscule detail. Either way, I don't have much longer." He was already waning, his presence faltering, shadows fading off as they stretched towards him.

* * *

His words stung, and she found herself roused just to prove him wrong. Spite stirred her limbs, shedding the weight of hopelessness that had descended on her. She lifted her chin, straightening, embodying the strength she stood for as Empress. Her eyes, free of the Void’s inky corruption, leveled on him. “I won’t forget.”

She would hunt down whoever was going to do this to him. She would kill them before they got the chance.

Even as the idea entered her head she sourly had to dismiss it. Her people needed her. Her days of chasing after traitors and assassins were behind her now. She sat the throne, and ruled the Empire -- alone. And so did he, in a way. Yet he was so ready to have it all taken from him?

She curiously took note of the undulating shadows that seemed to be calling him home, even as she brought her eyes to his. She gave him a steady, regal nod. “Good luck.”

* * *

Somehow he had been expecting more from her, and also less at the same time. More so, he had _hoped_ for more from her. Nothing explicit of course, but perhaps the rest of the evening. He knew though, that it was impossible. He glanced at the comb of bone on the desk and listened to it call out to him. The buzzing had been a nuisance at first but now it was mere background noise to him.

The Void was calling to him. It wanted him back, it urged him, shadows licking at his boots and hands almost affectionately. He had no choice but to accept his fate, even if now more than ever he desperately desired a completely different one. "...You're as gracious as ever." He spoke in hardly above a whisper and yet it still sounded as if his voice had cracked.

"You're truly the most fascinating woman in the Isles, Emily. It was an honor to give you my Mark." He dispersed, his being fractured, shadows engulfing one another until he was gone completely, leaving the room emptier than it had ever been before.


	2. Sleepless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months passed. The dreams started. At times she dreamed of him, and those were the good dreams. But she would dream of the Void as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fic background is low-chaos non-lethal Emily, incomplete audiograph collection (will make sense in context). Also, as you may notice, OneWhoTurns wrote for Corvo, Lavender_Whalebones wrote for Billie. There may be melodrama. Too bad, that's what's fun to write.]

Emily Kaldwin thought often about that night. Despite its utter incomprehensibility, she refused to let herself believe it only a dream. Not when she could touch the comb itself, taste that same brandy they’d had to drink.

There were times she worried for her sanity, as she sat in the dark, fingers rubbing small circles on the bone of the leviathan. She treated the comb as a fetish, expecting to hear those same whispers from it again, and her obsession troubled her.

Months passed. The dreams started. At times she dreamed of him, and those were the good dreams. But she would dream of the Void as well. She would wake with the taste of blood and stone in her mouth, swearing she could feel sludge in her veins, Void smoke at the edges of her vision. She never went there - she hadn’t been to the Void since the end of Delilah - but she felt it come to her. Icy cold tendrils suffocating her, dragging her under inky black waters and plunging down her throat to steal the breath from her lungs and the warmth from her blood.

Her sleep had never been so troubled, except for that first year after her mother’s murder. But even then, she’d had some odd companion. The eerie black-eyed boy in dreams she remembered now only as vague figures and looming dread. But he wasn’t in these dreams. And it somehow made them worse. Because she knew what that meant, and it robbed her of something.

Hope, perhaps.

Eventually the nightmares became routine.

At least once a week - usually the night after a particularly stressful session in the throne room - she would toss and turn in her slumber, her body claimed by the Void in sleep. She understood the madness of witches, reminded constantly of this free-floating power that she could harness if only she gave herself completely to the corruption that hungered from the shadows. Her Mark had begun to fade, no longer stark against her skin, but the power only grew. It wanted to be used.

She found herself spending more time doing unnecessary training, trying to discharge the energy that gathered around her, perhaps exhaust herself enough to sleep soundly. The one time she’d tested her old abilities - using her far reach to pick up a book from the other side of her safe room - she’d been thoroughly shaken. It had be euphoric. Practically orgasmic to allow the power to stampede through her again. Which is why she made herself stop. Power was a heady thing. She wouldn’t let the Void tempt her to madness. She’d been tempted once, and it had ruined her. Never again.

And so life continued.

* * *

Oliver - for that was his new name, chosen on a whim - knew about thirteen different kinds of coffee, but his favorite was the one that was drowned in sugars and whipped cream with sprinkles of shaved chocolate on top; it tasted practically blasphemous, and he couldn't help but enjoy having his senses thoroughly overwhelmed after they'd been dulled for four thousand years.

He didn't mind black coffee though, the sharp edges and bold tastes, the bitterness of filtered coffee beans, the scent, adrenaline rushing through his veins. If he was being honest, he didn't mind much of anything as of late. He'd learned to dislike some things, like fermented cabbage or caviar, meat, occasionally he would have fish but he couldn't stand to think he was eating something that was once a living, breathing being. Which was unfortunate given that Billie had a penchant for bringing aboard lots of salted beef. He never protested though, he was quiet, he was accepting.

These longs months aboard the boat they'd acquired by totally "legal" means were some of the most beautiful he'd _ever_ experienced.

The more he traveled on the more he remembered, as though he were tightening his grip on his humanity, pulling it back towards him, taking the reins on a mighty stallion tied to a golden chariot. Or perhaps the Void had just stifled that more human side of him and it was only coming back in slow drips from a leaky faucet. And it always came to him in dreams. He could recall his mother's face, though vaguely and without much emotional attachment. The brutality of his father, bottles breaking against crumbling brick walls, the flickering of fires in dark enclosed alleys where only the hopeless dared to roam.

What it felt like to have a shattered nose and the metallic taste of blood assaulting his tongue. His own blood gushing in waves down his face, a bright carmine against unsifted snow. Or the angry brittle cold of frostbite nipping at his toes and fingers in harsh winter months. Which were most.

Billie was his crutch, when he woke screaming and gasping for breath on those bad nights, where he could feel hands tugging him down onto a stone altar, a blade brushing his neck, plunging into his skin, the last moments where he wasn't even given the privilege of _breathing_ , only lying there in excruciating pain, senses lulling off into oblivion, the Void curling around him, invading, snuffing, drowning every bit of humanity until he was nothing but a conduit at its mercy.

She would hold him, rock him back and forth and run her fingers through his hair, He could see her hand, rock and metal all twisted almost painfully, and her eye, bright red, staring down at him. He could see it because he knew deep down, the Void still had him. It had everyone, watching them from within, testing them, waiting to devour. Not out of a distinct malevolence, but because that was the nature of what it was. He never told her though. He never told her much.

But that was okay, she accepted him too. They could sit in silence for hours, or bicker back and forth like school children, or cry, for no real reason that they wanted to state aloud.

She'd been training him. At first he was apprehensive, uneasy with the idea that he might one day need to fight. He was far more diplomatic than that. He prided himself on how reasonable he was in fact, but he knew that sometimes choice didn't have a place in the equation. He could flee, but if he wasn't fast enough, then what? So at first it was different means of escaping. She taught him flexibility, made him agile, scolded him, wrestled with him. But then it became a matter of blocking, and then street fighting, and then before he knew it he could shoot a fully loaded pistol without his hands trembling so much that he'd drop it afterwards.

And the thing was that he knew these procedures. He knew how to fight, but translating his knowledge into action was the difficult part. His mental ability was now restrained by his physical ineptitude. He caught on fast, though.

By the time they'd reached Dunwall's port he'd put on a little muscle. His hair was disheveled, he had a slight scruff and a certain clumsy youth to his step.

They'd sent letters back and forth at first, but Corvo was the one to intercept them. He'd given them a reasonable sum of money and specific directions to follow in order to gain access to the back channel where his spies would come in and out late into the night.

And now finally they'd gotten here, stars twinkling in and out up above, moonlight bathing the water in a porcelain glow, dodging flood lights as they made their way into the port. The water carried them up and there were very few people to escort them, only two of them, men in uniforms that displayed their status. They were clearly generals - or had been, once - he knew them both, and he could see how far back their lineage stretched, and everything that they'd done from the point of birth to now. They were good men.

He followed them, glancing at Billie with piercing pale green eyes that almost glowed in the dim light, and then his gaze flickered to the gazebo, where a memorial to Jessamine had been carved into the stone, where her blood would never quite wash away. He knew that every time Corvo saw those stone pillars his heart sank into his stomach and threatened to shrivel up and die. Suddenly, he felt guilty.

He knew it wasn't something he could control back then, but actions dominoed, toppling through generations like a pebble skipping across the water. If Daud never had those abilities, Jessamine wouldn't have died. Or at least, not in that manner. He knew rationally that he was not at fault. But emotionally it weighed on his shoulders and threatened to crush him. He had to talk himself out of taking the blame, so used to being a scapegoat for all of the world's people.

* * *

Corvo shifted on the balls of his feet, watching the door. The Outsider was coming. Tonight. A series of questions rattled off in his mind like a volley of arrows, each quickly silenced by certainty. He’d thought it all through. He had his best men (and women) running the mission, in charge of bringing the former god to him, under the cover of night, and setting him up in special quarters within Dunwall Tower. He had a planned curriculum, a set of tests he’d arranged with trusted physicians, a whole stack of files he wanted the man’s input on. The only issue was Emily.

The letters he’d intercepted had been addressed to her, and the tone was… Well, there was at least one poetic reference to “falling into the night” that rubbed him the wrong way. The Outsider may not have tried to kill Emily, but Corvo still wasn’t sure he forgave the man for Marking his daughter. Corvo himself had been theoretically free of the Void almost a year, but he still felt the eerie pull in him. It could only be worse for her. Emily was strong, but he hadn’t missed the signs of sleeplessness on his daughter’s face. Still, she didn’t ask for help and he didn’t intrude on her personal issues. When she wanted support he would be there. Always. But he wasn’t sure he could be so supportive of the former god.

Especially if that former god wanted anything to do with his daughter.

His ears pricked up at the soft whistle from beyond the doors, one of his agents - Calvin Rigard - informing him of the arrival, and he quickly swung them open. The sight he was met with surprised him to say the least. He knew the Outsider would be human, but…

Corvo’s brow furrowed, looking the kid over. Definitely better than he’d looked in the Void, that was for sure. Months with Lurk, weeks on the sea, had given him some color, that was good at least. And some muscle. He hadn’t gotten much from Lurk about how she planned to train the guy - she wasn’t exactly forthcoming about anything with him, unless he invoked Emily’s name - but she seemed to have done a decent job. What surprised Corvo about the Outsider - no, Oliver now - was his youthful appearance. For someone over 4000 years old, who’d been worn ragged in the Void, he didn’t look it. He looked to be about Emily’s age. That wasn’t good.

Of course, she had the good sense to avoid getting involved with someone like him.

And Corvo definitely trusted her on that one.

Which certainly had nothing to do with why he wasn’t telling her of the Out-- of Oliver’s arrival. Or of his existence, at all. Once he was sure the man posed no threat, wasn’t just a supernatural bomb waiting to explode, then he would tell Emily. In the meantime...

“Lurk,” he nodded to the woman, curtly, and then glanced back to the black-haired man, unsure how to address him. “...Come with me,” he ordered the two new arrivals, eyes lingering on Lurk’s odd prosthetics - noting how Rigard and Borne seemed to take no notice. Moving them away from the two agents, he ushered them down dark tunnels, through the rooms once dedicated to the Royal Interrogator, and into separate apartments that had been furnished just for this purpose. They weren’t lavish by any means; no rich velvets or fine silks, but they were comfortable and functional and would serve perfectly well as lodgings for the time being.  

“You’ll stay here tonight. Those two that met you - Rigard and Borne - they’ll be your primary contacts. They’ll bring you meals, escort you to appointments -- any messages you need to send go through them. They’re trustworthy.” His eyes lingered on the Outsider. “You’re not to have any contact with the rest of the tower. Not yet. Doctor Hypatia will be doing some tests. Once we get results from those… we’ll see.” He made no promises.

He gestured to a bookshelf against one of the walls of the little study they stood in. “Some reading material for you. I don’t know how much you know about the Isles, but if you’ve supposedly lived here your whole life, it can’t hurt to brush up on modern history.” He gestured to a file on the desk. “Your alias.” Turning to Lurk he added, “I assume Meagan Foster will be returning to Dunwall?”

* * *

Not to have any contact with the rest of the tower, Oliver knew exactly what that meant. He knew that Corvo suspected _something_ to say the least, and in the wake of his words he nearly rolled his eyes. He did however, heave a small sigh. "I understand your speculation, likely more than most; the Royal Protector lives up to his titles, especially that of _father_ , but I assure you that I-"

"Yes. Meagan Foster will be begrudgingly... returning to Dunwall." She cast a glance towards Oliver, hushing him with the deadpan look on her face. He awkwardly walked past her, sifting through the books on the shelves, all of which he'd already read. He knew the authors. He knew their lives, the truths and the deceptions. So instead, he sat down with quill and ink, paper laid out onto the table and he began to write.

He would write letters to people in Karnaca, right wrongs, he would use his knowledge to save people. The Void was apathetic, sometimes malevolent, it would send him to places of the deepest suffering and he would act as a witness, each and every scream or plea for help ringing in his ears. His brows furrowed at the thought, creases along his forehead as he shook those times from his mental wanderings. He had other things to worry about now. Like who he'd tell about the fortune on Shindaerey Peak -- he certainly didn't want it. He knew where that money had been, who'd handled it: the cultists.

It went on like that for several days. Every time he'd finish answering questions, being tested on by the lovely Dr. Hypatia, training with Billie in the courtyard (sadly while Emily was in the throne room), and any other tedious task Corvo set him, presumably to keep him away from Emily at all costs, he would return to his spot at the desk where he would write. He would be like that for hours, going on from page to page. And it seemed to be working.

News came in that an Atlas Morgan had uncovered loads of silver from the Peak, a man who owned his independent business and dealt with mining equipment. He would put the money to good use, Oliver was certain of it. He would use his own bare hands, adept in metal working, to create masks and hoods capable of blocking out the dust, capable of saving lives. And that was what mattered.

But even with his success he was growing ever restless. He wasn't as patient as he was while floating through a boundless void, where time escaped him and he had nothing to look forward to. Like brushing his fingers through Emily's hair, or stroking her cheek, slowly loosening the ties of her boots and setting them both aside, hands careful, methodical, searching the expanse of her body and admiring every curvature she had to offer.

Corvo didn't seem to trust him though, which he figured was fair and his own occasionally sarcastic remarks were most definitely not helping the case. It was much easier to tease Corvo when he was a god, floating up on his high misty pedestal.

But now he was a man -- a man considerably younger and less experienced. A man that Corvo could probably kill with a single flick to the forehead. As much as he hated to admit it, that scared him. So he didn't disobey the older man, he didn't directly go against his orders, and sometimes Corvo wouldn't glare at him, so he figured that had to be progress.

He stepped out of Hypatia's lab and into one of the many grand halls, a bright chandelier above him, little pinpricks along his arm from where she'd drawn blood. It was nearing evening so he could reasonably assume Billie had snuck off to the dining hall, she seemed to enjoy the lavish meals. Or perhaps she just enjoyed testing Rigard and Borne's patience. Either way, he was alone.

The tests had gone quicker than predicted, so now he'd just have to navigate back to his room.

* * *

The last week had been hell. Never before had Emily had such awful sleep. It was as though the Void were _angry_ at her. Each time she finally rested she lost her breath, felt her arms sinking through inky mires, her feet leaden, her throat choked by black weeds springing from every wall. She felt targeted, specifically -- singled out for torture by a supposedly unbiased entity. She’d managed perhaps six hours of sleep over the last four nights. Better than nothing, but not by much. Twice today she’d stopped herself from asking her father to stay with her overnight, to help her finally rest. She’d noticed the pained looks he gave her across the breakfast table. He knew something was wrong. But every time she thought to reach out, to ask for help, something stilled her tongue. Pride, maybe. Stubbornness. She had an awful lot of it.

She’d skipped dinner, and Corvo had promised to make her excuses when she explained she wasn’t feeling well and needed rest.

Rest hadn’t come. Fifteen minutes of fitful slumber and then she’d been seized by the Void, her mind filled with echoes and the taste of metal, her limbs encased in molten rock, her mouth full of ice and ash. She woke not scared but angry, hot tears flooding from her in frustration. The one thing she needed - a basic human function - denied to her. It was driving her mad. How many times she’d regretted that night. Had it been worth it, to give him one final touch of human affection, if it left her so broken? The truth should have been obvious - no, of course not - but she couldn’t bring herself to fully condemn the choice. Some part of her still felt for that poor boy, his life so cruelly taken from him. Yet another part cursed him for ever coming to her chambers that night.

She was so tired… How much easier things would be if she just let herself use her abilities. Her leaden feet could rest if she simply pulled herself by reaching. Her fingers would twitch, prepared to aim, but she would stop herself. No. That was what it wanted, this malicious Void. To twist her fading Mark into a funnel and pour itself through her, incinerating her, leaving a husk behind. Another angry tear fell from her eye. She couldn’t concentrate. She’d been useless. Reports came in and she listened but couldn’t remember what they said. Words swam before exhausted eyes when she tried to read. It couldn’t fill her, so instead it was draining her steadily.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Emily stood. Sleep wasn’t coming. In that case, she needed something else to give her energy. She let out a sigh, slipping a long silken robe - royal navy - on over her nightclothes. Damn any guard that judged her for wearing a robe at 6pm. She’d have them shipped to Tyvia.

She just barely remembered her gloves.

When she exited her room, no guards stood in the hall. All off getting their own meals, no doubt. But she needed more than mere food. No, she needed something stronger, and the only one who might know how to help her was the good doctor herself.

Despite her exhaustion, Emily’s posture - ingrained in her since birth - was pristine as she moved through the comfortably empty halls. She spotted a couple members of tower staff, all politely bowing and then turning away, granting some modesty. Surely they would find it odd to see her out and about in a nightgown and robe, regardless of the time of day. And she never wore her hair down. She was glad so few were out; this was a rumor in the making.

Down deserted hallways, through the side stairwells usually reserved for staff - she avoided as much as she could, steadily working her way toward Doctor Hypatia’s lab. Perhaps a drugged sleep was what she needed. _Or a medically induced coma._

* * *

Oliver stood silently for a moment, his fingers twitching faintly as he felt something approaching. He couldn't gauge the direction, the intent, but he could feel the presence of the Void, he could feel the cold against his fingertips, neck and face. As though he'd opened a window in Tyvia. It was startling and brought back memories that he forced beneath the surface a little too quickly.

The last thing he needed was to excavate an ancient tomb in his mind and unravel something unsightly, especially so close to bedtime. He turned, taking a single step forward and stopping in his tracks so quickly he nearly fell flat on his face. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

He could imagine it, first seeing her in reality, meeting her in the flesh. He had planned out what he would wear, he had promised himself he would practice what he would say for words did not come as easily to him as they did when he could pluck information out of thin air. He needed time now, he needed to process. And seeing her now, in her silken robe, hair waterfalling, shimmering in the nightly glow, it rendered him speechless.

His cheeks were hot, hands immediately going to fidget, thumbs twiddling together in his very clear nervousness. But he forced himself to stand up straight, even if he was disappointed by the circumstances. He wondered... had Corvo told her to come? Had he advised her that he'd be here? If so, wouldn't she have come in a more presentable fashion? His eyes widened once more and he wondered if perhaps she was coming here to banish him herself. Perhaps she did not have affection for him, perhaps it was only pity that fueled her actions that night and-

He silenced those thoughts, swallowing harshly, so harshly that his throat actually ached and he actually coughed, stiffening and bracing himself for the upcoming confrontation. He was suddenly very conscious of how _he_ looked. Perhaps he should have shaved, perhaps he should have slicked his hair down in the way the Void had it, the way it had chosen to present him. But now he was just a boy, no older than she, a slight tan to his skin, ruffled hair that was actually quite wavy and a solid scruff along his jaw that he really needed to get rid of, if only he trusted himself with a blade to his neck, or anyone else for that matter.

At least it added definition to that sharp jawline though. He really did have features to be sung about.

But she was absolutely gorgeous.

* * *

Emily glanced up from her path at the sound of a slight cough. She nodded a gracious royal nod to the poor staff member she’d interrupted--

 _No_. Her head snapped back up, gaze coming into sudden focus. She froze.

Her mind slowly cranked to life, trying to interpret what exactly she was seeing. It couldn’t be. He was dead. Not just dead - _dead_ dead. Second dead. Or - final dead. Fully dead? She shook her head, blinking heavily, the words jumbling in her mind’s eye. She must be imagining things. Lifting a gloved hand to her face, she rubbed her eyes wearily, sure he would be gone when she looked again. But there he was. Not the same - not exactly - but recognizable.

A wave of thoughts and emotions flooded through her. He was alive. Truly _alive_. How? And how was he here? Why hadn’t he told her? Why hadn’t _someone_ told her? Why hadn’t _Corvo_ told her? Was this the cause of the Void’s hunger? Did he know the pain he’d put her through? Did he feel at all guilty for it? And - _how?_ She couldn’t stop thinking _how?_

She took a couple steps toward him, brow furrowed in utter confusion. She raised a hand to his cheek. Warm. Truly warm, like a human - was he human? **_How?_**

The Void seemed to quiet for just a moment, the steady ringing in her ears - something she hadn’t noticed until it was gone - going silent and leaving her almost in shock. Finally. Finally some quiet. She drew in a quick gasp, a look of utter relief crossing her features, looking briefly transcendent. The silence was beautiful, to be completely free of the Void’s torture for the first time in a week.

The Void… Her eyes sharpened to a glare, mouth snapping shut and jaw flexing angrily. It was his fault this had happened. Her fingers twitched on his face and she snatched her hand away to stop herself from slapping him. He was the one who’d put this into her. He’d poisoned her with his kiss, and she’d suffered ever since. She felt betrayed, and in her exhaustion it was hard to hide that fact. She couldn’t speak. If she opened her mouth she would surely scream - in anger, in frustration, in pain, in hurt, she wasn’t sure which, but it wanted out of her and quickly.

* * *

Oliver found her approaching to be the slowest, most painful thing he'd experienced in a great while, and that was coming from someone who'd spent four thousand years in a void. Her silence weighed on him, words unspoken, a tension building with every second that passed and he had no idea how to release it. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the anger, the way her jaw tensed and the caution in her movements. She was holding herself back. 

He thought for a few moments and finally it hit him. He had no idea how the Void would react to her, but he knew it was poisonous, he knew just as it had been too late. And he'd been so caught up in all of the splendor of living, the food, the pleasantries, heat and cold and dusk and dawn, everything intermingling, to even consider how she might be feeling. How incredibly _selfish_ of him. How incredibly _human_ of him.

He fell to his knees in shame, suddenly lacing his arms around her hips, setting his forehead against her stomach, speechless, at a loss for any semblance of what to say to make it better. No apology could mend the mistake, and he'd always felt that actions spoke louder than words ever could.

And if he were being honest with himself here, which he tried to be in most situations, he craved the closeness. The intimacy. He yearned for it now more than ever, not only to satiate the hungry, primal side of his humanity but also to quell the desire for the warmth of _her_ , even if her expressions were cold and her words were like ice. He did not speak for a long while. All he knew was... this wasn't how he had envisioned this going.

* * *

Emily startled as he fell before her, stiffening and recoiling in surprise when he put his arms around her. How… She wasn’t quite sure how to respond. The anger had dissipated in pure confusion. It was clear that, whatever had happened, he certainly hadn’t meant it maliciously.

“...” She moved slowly, unsure what to do. Awkwardly, she gave him a stilted... pat... on the head.

Hells, she had no clue what to do from here.

A strangled noise came from her throat as she tried to come up with words, but all she could manage was a disoriented, “...How?”

* * *

He stiffened as well once he realized he'd acted on impulse, quickly pulling away and getting up. Act as though it hadn't happened at all and get on with it? That was exactly what he planned on doing. He just didn't know any other way of telling her how happy he was to see her, emotions bubbling up and threatening to overflow. He didn't know how she managed to keep her composure, how she could stay so solid and cold throughout all these years, only ever breaking sparsely. 

He admired her so much more for that.

But he realized now how weak he probably looked. How unimpressed she probably was. He folded his arms stiffly, voice smoothing out, far more prominent when it wasn't layered with the Void. "... It is a debt I could never think to repay that I owe to a certain Billie Lurk," he explained, nodding slowly.

"She had every reason to kill me where I stood, encased in stone at her mercy, and instead she went out of her way to make the harder decision, the difficult choice. She saved me."

* * *

Billie Lurk? The woman she’d once known as Meagan Foster? ...Once a killer, and now a savior… Emily shook her head. It was odd how people changed if offered forgiveness.

That thought sent a pang of guilt through her. She should forgive him, as well. But of course - that was easy to think now, the Void silenced. How would she feel when it returned?

Emily bit back her questions of _but how_ and instead hesitated a brief moment before speaking. “...I can’t sleep,” she admitted at last, quietly.

She had the sudden realization that they were in a public hallway, and looked around in alarm, relieved to find them still alone. They should move elsewhere. She still had so many questions, things she wasn’t even sure he could answer, but the silencing of the Void left her with a clearer mind than she’d had in days. She kept surveying the area around them even as she began small steps toward Hypatia’s lab again, continuing, voice low. “I haven’t slept for a week.” A thought occurred to her. “How long-” but she stopped. No, he looked like he’d been training out in the sun. There was no possible way he’d only been alive for a week. Was there? “Did she save you a week ago?” she asked curiously.

* * *

He stared at her and slowly shook his head, alarmed by her question, but intrigued, and it was clear on his face that she had caught his attention. But in truth, she'd always had his attention.

He noticed how paranoid she was and slowly turned the corner, peeking around and stepping into the secret room behind the fireplace, it led straight up to her bedroom in the tower. He knew this place like the back of his hand, he'd spent enough time watching it anyways. His movements were surprisingly graceful, even for someone who'd only been alive for a few months.

His expression went blank again and he raised a brow at her, "There's a hole in the world on Shindaerey Peak. Where the Void is closest to reality, shifting in and out through fragments left behind by a mass catastrophe. It was there that Billie chose her to liberate me. We remained in Karnaca for several weeks, wandering silently through the abandoned buildings in the Dust District. It was surreal, even more so than being in the Void itself. She understood, Billie understands many things that most do not, so she waited, patiently, for the day that I might open up to her and tell her all of the things that ran through my mind. How curious she was, but how considerate as well." He watched the stones slowly drop back into place and glanced around with a clear interest.

He could recall when Corvo had stopped here, slipping into this very compartment just before taking down the Arch Regent. Listening to a recording of his dearest, the way his heart sunk, the way it fueled his flames, how determined, how strong, how utterly broken.

"...The Void latches on to anything it can curl its tendrils around. It scratches at the surface, desperately yearning to escape and devour the world, to grow and expand despite the boundless expanse, it seeks uniformity, equilibrium. It watches you now more than ever. Cuts need time to heal, but through raw wounds blood spills, and like blood the Void drips, fluid, it molds, encompasses completely. Do not let it drown you, Emily."

* * *

She noticed as he changed their path, wondering briefly if it was wise to follow, if he knew where he was going, but as he opened her mother’s secret room she realized: he knew Dunwall Tower better than most. He probably knew everywhere better than most. She hesitated at the entrance to the secret room. She hadn’t been in it in years. Corvo might have, but if he did he never mentioned it.

As the words spilled from his lips, she was reminded of that night. How his poetry explained the world in beautiful images to her. How it had tantalized her. Seduced her. She shook her head, shedding herself of anger as well as wistfulness, focusing on the tale he told. Shindaerey Peak… it sounded familiar. She must have read it recently, maybe a report of some kind. Speaking of the Void made her skin grow cold and clammy, reminded of shrieking dreams and stolen breath. The sudden darkness of the hidden room didn’t help.

Glancing around, Emily felt a small twinge of ache in her heart. It still hurt, at times, thinking about her mother. At how she’d been so brutally stolen away from them. She didn’t like thinking about such things while talking about Billie. It made her angry. She may have forgiven, but she hadn’t forgotten.

His talk shifted to the Void again, and she tried to pay close attention, even as his words worked their magic on her. They seemed true enough. Did he know what she’d been subjected to?

“Was that what it was like for you?” she wondered quietly. She’d kept her distance from him since he’d let go of her waist, not wanting to touch him for fear of the Void’s odd retaliation. Now, she looked to him, eyes curious but also hurting. Haunted. “The smoke and the stone and the-” She couldn’t even describe it. She looked away, her words strangled as she whispered, “I can’t breathe. It’s choking me constantly.” Her eyes shot to him again, desperate for reassurance. “Is that how it was for you?” _Will it stop?_

* * *

"For a long time I'd forgotten how to breathe," he admitted, eyes breaching through the curtains on the slim windows as he nodded and clasped his hands behind his back, a habit of his. 

"The first several centuries were a blur, hazy asphyxiation and utter terror intermingling to create a bitter apathy for the world and the people that inhabited it. Humanity wasn't a piece in the puzzle, I was aware and yet only to an excruciating degree. My perception was present, I knew the things that were happening to me down to the tiniest fiber, the Void crashing into my being, drowning me, holding me in place as if taming a raging bull. Resisting was only a futile action because it already had me. I was only exhausting myself in trying to escape from a world so vast it had no clear sense of direction," he explained, thoughtfully, his expression contemplative.

"But you, Empress Emily Kaldwin, have always been an exception, haven't you." He glanced at her now pointedly. "From your lineage to your title, child empress now highly revered and respected by the entirety of the Empire -- very rarely do people prove themselves as worthy as you have. It's _interesting_ how you've managed to remain humbled, certainly others would be basking in the glory. And yet here you are... with me." He tilted his head, eyes flickering to the ground as he turned to the stairs that led up to her bedroom.

He thought or a moment, about all of the times he could have let her fail. All of the times he could have watched her crumble. He didn't need to tell Daud the name of the witch that planned on possessing an innocent. He didn't need to visit Corvo Attano and gift him with his Mark. He didn't even feel compelled to give Emily his Mark, or show her his past, bring her to his little island chipping away at the fringes of the Void. That wasn't by inclination of his state. That was by his own free will. Something he very rarely had back then.

* * *

At first, his words only served to further her hopelessness, mouth slowly opening as terror seized her. _Centuries_ of this? But of course, that was in the Void. She wasn’t. ...It was in _her_. Still, his descriptions only elicited misery. If resistance was futile, why bother? She could so easily use her abilities again, let the Void in. Use the power it offered her. Trying to hold it off was exhausting, after all.

But then his tone changed. He spoke with fascination, and she found herself curious to hear his thoughts, her fear set aside for the time being. He spoke of her like a legend.

She wasn’t a legend.

He turned to the stairs, and her stomach leapt to her throat, blood rushing her cheeks. What on earth was he doing? Did he truly expect her to take him to bed? To let him anywhere near her quarters, after the last time had ended in such misery? Her mind rehashed his words, trying to figure out what he expected of her. She was left flummoxed, staring at the Outsider’s back as he climbed the stairs with that patient grace of his.

Well she wouldn’t do it. She turned back to the other exit, reaching for the exit switch. He would damn well come back and apologize for such a-

The ringing in her ears came back slowly at first before slamming into her at full force, and she smothered her sharp cry of pain in the folds of her robe. Not again. Not this again. She let out a frustrated groan, hand pulling back from the switch she’d been about to flip. “Come back here,” she ordered, a touch of frustration coloring her Empress voice. When he didn’t _immediately_ rush to her side she added, through gritted teeth, “ _Please._ ”

* * *

There was a rather smug entitlement that shone on his face, but it was more out of amusement than anything particularly malicious. It was never malicious actually. "The Empress? Begging me? This must be some kind of dream." He spoke before padding down the steps and leaning against the wall, seeing right through her. Even with those soft pale green eyes of his not encased in inky black, he still peered into her soul.

"It wasn't my intention to bed you, Emily." He didn't want to admit that he wouldn't have the courage to, anyways. "You're in no state of mind to..." He didn't finish that sentence, cheeks burning just faintly. "...No longer dwelling within the Void, being outside of society is no excuse for not adapting to common courtesy. Even then it still wasn't adequate in itself. While proprieties do often strike me as slightly silly, our rather... unique situation-" He gestured to her and then slowly to himself, letting a silence settle for a few moments before clearing his throat. "...prevents us from interacting the same way two people engaging in a courtship would. ...Regardless... Do you really have it in you to believe that I am out to... deflower you or seduce you into the night? I was of mind to believe that Abbey teachings were below you."

He folded his arms and slowly cocked his head to the side to change the perspective he had of her, eyes continuously turning to the mess of hair falling along her shoulders. "...I intended on bringing you back to your quarters and bidding you goodnight. Your father cares very deeply for you, almost unhealthily so. Nights spent wallowing away, withering in a rotting cell at Coldridge, mocked, accused of a heinous crime he did not commit, and only you were the small bit of hope that kept him breathing, kept him sane. Had he known Delilah's plan and been notified instead of Daud, well he would have done exactly what Daud himself did, probably with more grace and aptitude, seeing as it _is_ Daud... Though it was within Daud's best interests that I informed him rather than-" He stopped himself, furrowing his brows faintly. It had been so long since he'd let himself free flow speak like this, all of the words falling into place. He would filter himself though, he'd already told Emily a bit too much.

"Your father is a skeptical man who trusts little to nothing, especially concerning you. It would be a grave mistake to be caught wandering the tower or... doing other things with you without his permission, while my ability to see the paths has escaped me, it wouldn't be difficult to predict the movements of an overprotective father only out for the good of his daughter," he explained, navigating back onto the topic.

* * *

His first words, spoken more playfully than he’d ever spoken to her, very nearly had her calling him out, an irked scowl crossing briefly over her lips. She was opening her mouth to say something, even - to deny the word _beg_ for one - when he reached the base of the stairs and the ringing stopped again. Instead of irritation she was flooded with relief, letting out a wistful sigh at the silence before catching his eye again. His eyes were - astounding. Truly, like ghost eyes; they managed to keep his human form still in that distinct category of otherness. And they silenced her protests before they’d made it halfway to her tongue.

As he went on, so matter-of-fact about a subject most would speak of in metaphor only, she found an eyebrow cocking at his efforts, the way his words fell just shy of tripping over themselves. He may have denied immediate intentions, but it didn’t sound as though his long-term thoughts were strictly platonic, either. His use of the word ‘deflower’ made it hard for her to suppress a smirk, her lips only twitching the slightest bit. Perhaps he didn’t know quite as much about her as she’d once thought.

She watched his eyes, observing their wandering gaze, and very briefly thought of the comb still sitting on her bedside table. His mentions of her father served to shame her, whether he intended them to or not. She had to look away, a small blush rising in her cheeks. She should’ve asked Corvo for help sooner. He would do anything for her, she knew that, and if he’d known the Void had this hold on her he would’ve fought the Void itself if it would help. Her thoughts on her father, it took a moment to realize what the Outsider - not the Outsider now, who was he? - was saying.

Her eyebrows drew together in immediate confusion. Daud? What did he have to do with anything? How could he possibly be compared to her father -- Daud was a cold-hearted killer. Was he saying Corvo would have killed her mother? No, he’d said _Delilah’s_ plan. What plan? She was about to ask when he stopped himself, and her lips pursed in irritation, that was only doubled by his next words. So Corvo did know. Of course he did. And he’d deliberately hidden this from her? Why? And knowing how this new presence silenced the Void; how long? Could she have been sleeping soundly all this time?

Emily’s mind swam with questions, and she couldn’t figure out where to start but she knew he wasn’t leaving until he’d answered all of them. And as long as he kept the Void silent, she may be able to focus long enough to ask.

“You mention Daud - what does he have to do with any of this? What plan?” She managed to keep her voice level, her eyes piercing into him, a silent threat. He wasn’t going anywhere until she had her answers.

* * *

Oliver stared at her silently for a moment, and then another, and had he been in the Void he would have simply dismissed her then, asking questions she didn't want to know the answer to. Ones that would hurt her. He didn't want to have to be that person, and he knew for a fact that Corvo didn't know the trials Daud underwent to save Emily from an even greater threat than just a few perverse minded nobles. His thoughts wandered off to the Pendletons and he very nearly cringed, hands behind his back, stroking his thumb against his wrist as a self comforting method. They had reminded him of people he despised.

But this was not the Void and he could not whisk himself away into the nothing and pretend as though he simply hadn't heard her. He tilted his head forward and a thoughtful expression painted his face. In the dim light of the room, with tower lamps peeking in through the curtains, it was almost painfully clear just how foreign he was. His features were almost Tyvian. But there was something ethereal to him, even as a human.

His eyes fluttered back up to meet hers, "There are intricacies to the world that most couldn't even begin to comprehend. Actions domino through generations, but each action has multiple reactions happening at once. There is a time in which Billie Lurk did not lose her Deirdre. A time in which Daud, The Knife of Dunwall was a good man through and through, where Aramis Stilton never dabbled with the wrong people, Kirin Jindosh denied Duke Luca Abel council and did not fall to the corruption of power. What you have to understand is that _now_ is not the only _now_ that is currently happening. And if you can't comprehend that, then at least consider the idea that not everything is how it seems and deception isn't always a ploy to belittle you or hold you back. Sometimes the truth stings like the nip of a blood fly, other times it's the shock of the train rails, and while rare, there are moments where the truth kills you on the inside -- makes you bitter and cold, calloused. What I mean, Emily, is that the pastures are green where you cater to them. Perhaps it would be... a good idea to remain on your pasture," he said, completely serious now.

He turned away finally, tearing his gaze from hers and directing it to the floor, wondering how he'd managed to spin himself in this circle. He'd need to put effort into keeping his mouth shut, remaining inconspicuous, subtlety was something of the Void, then it was effortless, when his emotions didn't drive his actions. Now he was making talk of 'deflowering' and near scolding her for not giving her father the time of day. He knew she was no virgin to be sacrificed and no blossom to be plucked. She was better than that, But part of him still wanted to protect her.

If from anything at all, he wanted to protect her from himself.

* * *

Emily’s lips thinned the longer he just stood there saying nothing. Once he began speaking, her chin raised in approval, relaxing, but that didn’t last long. His words flowed elegantly, but they irritated her. Did he think her stupid? She’d studied with Anton Sokolov. She’d used that strange metaphysical timepiece in Stilton’s manor. She understood - of course _now is not the only now_. She’d changed her _nows_ once. But this _now_ was the only one that mattered to her. He spoke words around her, as if to coddle her, when all he really did was avoid telling her the truth. And his pretty face and verbosity couldn’t hide that from her.

He wished to keep her blissfully ignorant.

Blissful ignorance had never helped her before.

“‘Remain on my pasture?’” she repeated quietly, eyes sparking dangerously. A bitter tide was rising. “You seem to forget that you are human now, Outsider.” She still didn’t know what to call him, but she liked the way the title bit viciously from her lips. “And you are a subject of this empire. Of _my_ empire.” Her shoulders were back, head held high, imperious and cold, even as a fire lit within her, burning the hurt from her heart.

She advanced on him, a combination of exhaustion and frustration and even that small touch of betrayal raging within her. “How many times you stole me from my world, dragging me into the Void?” she mused without humor. “If I gave the command, _you_ would be the one dragged from your bed.” Further and further she advanced, forcing him to retreat or be nose to nose with her. Her voice was practically a growl, so low and ominous. “I’m no innocent child. I’ve seen things.” Her eyes moved briefly to her Marked hand, still hidden beneath silk as she flexed it, sensing the roiling Void that waited just beyond her reach, ready to leap to do her bidding - and take her along with it. “You’ve shown me things,” she added, a trace of blame in her tone as she caught his eyes again.

“So don’t speak your pretty words and make your pretty excuses just because now you have nowhere to run.” He couldn’t up and disappear, couldn’t send her back to her own world now. This was her world. And she ran it.

* * *

He didn't flinch, didn't even blink, watching her with a blank expression that only darkened as he processed her words. He shifted, but not by much, pushing his weight onto his right leg and folding his arms distantly. "I am subject to no empire," he said suddenly after several beats of silence.

"Every day you wake to the sun shining through your curtains and warming your cheeks, tea by your bedside, servants at your beck and call. You grumble and groan over meetings with public officials and not over a stomach so empty you feel you might drop where you stand. Never have you felt the bitter cold biting at the ends of your fingertips. Sloshing through Karnaca's back alleys taught you what some of the _upper_ lower class deal with, but even then you had someone to listen to you, people that stood by you until the very end. Have you ever truly been alone in all of your life, and do you  _really_ believe you have any right to threaten a man with a name forgotten by time itself with your petty idea of authority? You have a title given to you by people with power to suit themselves. You're like everyone else, Emily Kaldwin: fragile, human, and vulnerable to the lascivious corruption of the Void, and right now you're just letting it devour you because of how much easier it is than _fighting_. If a boy ripped from the streets could fend off the Void for four thousand years you can handle of few nights without your precious beauty rest." He stepped forward suddenly, shaking his head.

"Drag me from my bed and throw me to the dogs; at least the hounds know not to stick their noses into unsavory places. Innocence is an illusion created by people too cowardly to let things go and be the way they are -- people like you, Emily. Wave around your horn and blow on the mouth-piece whenever it's convenient, but do not expect _me_ to bend to your will simply because you step in gilded boots with chin held high and eyes stone cold beaming with unfounded entitlement, _Your Highness_." His voice had raised only just slightly but otherwise he was dangerously quiet. hand clenched into fists so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.

So this was anger. Saying things he didn't mean. Holding things against her that had no weight just because he knew they'd be sharp enough to cut. Humans, what self destructive little creatures they were. And now he was made of the same explosive stuff.

* * *

His words enraged her. Her fists shook, Marked hand trembling, aching to harness the power of the Void and _choke him with it_. He was a man now. And he could be killed like any man. She flexed her fingers, forming the perfect fist, just as her father had shown her years ago. _Hand closed, rake the palm, tuck tight, thumb over. Hand closed, rake the palm, tuck tight, thumb over. Hand closed, rake the palm, tuck tight, thumb over._ Her pulse thudded warrior rhythms in her ears, her breath like a snare drum, unable to stop herself from shaking.

Thoughts clashed loudly in her head, each side screaming at the other over all of the pain and guilt and anger. But her gaze never wavered. Even as she breathed through tightly clenched teeth, she did not back down. She would not back down.

He may have seen her. He may have known things about her. But this was petty, comparing childhood traumas. It wasn’t as though she could change her upbringing. Would he look at a girl who’d just laid witness to her own mother’s murder, been pulled from her side, wrenched through space and deposited at a brothel that teemed with the depravity of man -- would he look that girl in the eye, at ten years old, and tell her her suffering was invalid? He knew everything, didn’t he? He knew that wasn’t how pain worked.

_Hand closed, rake the palm, tuck tight, thumb over._

Tight fists by her side, ready to strike.

She lunged toward him - but her arms stayed down. She stopped her face inches from his, hot breath playing over his lips. “I earned my title,” she hissed, voice surprisingly even. “I earned it _back_ from a woman who would have kept me a toy - a pretty figure on a shelf, to humiliate and abuse until my will was broken.” The Void surged in her angrily, and she bit down hard on the inside of her lip, drawing blood, before she continued. “I _earned_ it back with cunning and mercy and - no, _not_ alone - with help. Help from people who _wanted_ to follow me. _Wanted_ to aid me. I reclaimed my empire without taking a single life.”

Her eyes tremored, pupils seeming to pulse as the Void struggled within her. She ignored the taste of ash in her mouth, the otherworldly smoke that burned her lungs. “And don’t pretend you’re so different. I saved your damned soul once. And you never told me to stop, to _let things be the way they were_. There was a time you fought, too, against Delilah.” Her body was radiating an angry heat, but her fists remained at her sides. She would not strike him. She wouldn’t give him - or the Void - the satisfaction.

“So yes: I expect you to ‘bend to my will.’ Not for the sake of the Empire, for all I invoke it. No. I expect you to obey me because you know it’s right, regardless of what authority I claim. Because you sense a kindred spirit. Because the woman - the witch - whose name you speak is the same who tried to seize power from _you_ too.” _Delilah’s plan_. What had been Delilah’s plan?

“Humans meddle,” she informed him, her voice brought down to an intense hum. “We are curious, flawed creatures.” He knew this. He was one now, too. “We seek knowledge - _I_ seek knowledge. And you will give it to me, whether now or later.”

Head held high, the pulse of the Void stilled by her own determined heart, she pulled back from him, eyes proud and defiant. “...And it’s ‘Your Imperial Majesty.’”

* * *

He tensed when she moved closer, only instinctively. But he knew she was right. He knew from square one she had the right to know but he couldn't manage the words and damn was she close, so close he could taste her breath against his tongue and he would do anything to just catch it between his lips and hold it there and breathe her in like lingering smoke from a pipe. His hands ached to hold her close and share the last shards of the lingering Void within her because in truth the power was absolutely intoxicating and it fit her so _perfectly_ that he lost any semblance of what they were even fighting about and just stared at her lips wantonly, his breath picking up, heart thudding in his ears but for a completely different reason now.

Point being: humanity was hard, and he was a little hard too.

He bit the inside of his cheek and dug his nails into his palm so harshly he was sure that it broke skin and left little drops of crimson rolling down his fingers. The salt left his skin stinging, and the silence that settled between them was tense in more ways than one.

He took a breath and it was noticeably quivering, if only just slightly. He was thoroughly shaken. But he tried his best not to let his features betray him as he watched her. His expression was unamused, unimpressed, bored even. He'd always been so painfully skilled when it came to making people feel smaller than him.

"Delilah's campaign stretched much farther back in time than you could possibly imagine," he said, after what felt like minutes of solid quiet between them.

"She was resourceful, more so than even I granted her credit for. One of her first machinations involved sucking your soul into the Void and taking your place, within your body, using one of her masterpieces. She planned on conquering the Empire within the vessel of a little girl, but once she realized the extent of the Void's power... she began to aim a little higher, slithering her way back into reality-" He stepped forward, eyes dark, even with their astonishing hues.

"-And she _seduced_ her way to the top, reducing men and women into malleable pieces of clay, digging her fingers into them and skillfully playing on their weaknesses and strengths, tugging at their strings, watching them writhe beneath her in a sick twisted glee. She realized she wanted more than that, accepting the cold and enveloping embrace of power in its rawest form." He didn't stop approaching, only planting his feet near centimeters from her own, hands locked behind his back, mostly for his own sake.

"But even when she had its eyes on her - all eyes on her - it was never enough to satiate her hunger, her maddening yearning for more, always pining for more, on her knees at the very thought of having just a bit _more_ than she already had."

"And it was you from the start. It wasn't just Corvo Attano who spent months rotting away in a cell -- it was Daud with guilt in his heart and anguish heavy on his scarred and battered shoulders; it was Billie Lurk, an assassin's right hand who was bitter and soured with the acts she'd committed. Everyone marked, from day one, in some form or fashion be it in unintelligible, enigmatic indirect terms or unmistakably fastened and linked from the very core worked with your best intentions in mind. _That is the truth_ , Emily Kaldwin. That is the knowledge you seek, _Your Imperial Majesty_."

And it was he who'd set it into motion. Interfering where he did not need to, without the Void compelling him. But she didn't need to know that. Perhaps she'd just piece it together herself.

He was near panting, hands trembling but hidden behind him, tucked away safely. He really needed to bandage that up.

* * *

She’d wondered if she might need to hold off a day or two. If she’d have to lay down the fight one day only to pick it up the next. But it seemed she had made her point.

His words slipped into her - her ears, her mouth - the knowledge feeding her desperate heart, even as her eyes glinted hungrily. His words spackled holes in her soul, adding hues to her vision of the world. Something else tugged at her, flickering small pictures or bits of information before her eyes, filling gaps in the story. Daud’s role in it all, Billie’s betrayal and penance - _Farewell Daud_ \- and the Outsider the one nudging everything into motion. She blinked the Void from her eyes before it could seize her up again, focusing on his words: the story of Delilah’s duplicity.

There were times she had to marvel at her aunt. Not impressed so much as unable to look away. Her ambition, this ravenous thing.

His words only added to Emily’s morbid fascination, weaving lurid images - his skill, even as a mortal, to spin tangible scenes with just his voice. She’d thought it was the Void that night, salaciously tempting her, but she realized now it had been all him. Him. The man now moving closer, the man whose eyes merely had to look at her lips to make her mouth water. The one who had wrenched her open and poured the Void into her. Who’d corrupted her. Who’d saved her from a fate worse than death, only to throw her to the hungry Void in a slip of carnal impropriety.

Oh how she wished she could undo that one night. If only so she might repeat it now, free of risk. To take his lips, his tongue, his-

She stopped herself. Not this. Not again.

Her body rocked forward slightly onto the balls of her feet. Pulled to him. But she stilled herself there. She wouldn’t allow it. She’d tasted temptation once, and no matter how sweet it had been, it had destroyed her. Even if-

Even if in his presence the shrieks of the Void were silent. Even if it was easier to resist with him there.

His words came to an end, the mockery of his previous statement completely dissolved.

They each wore their impassive masks. False scorn. But his breath gave him away, and his eyes. Hot air traveled between them, and Emily was once again overwhelmed by his humanity. _Breath_. He breathed. He breathed, and he pained, and he raged and he hungered, and he lusted. Oh, he lusted. It hadn’t gone unnoticed. But it would have to go un-acted upon.

She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his confession.

In the silence that followed, she heard the tiniest tap, and her eyes found the source of the noise. Blood dripping from his palm. She watched for a moment, then spoke, not angrily but not particularly kindly, either. Deadpan. “Masochist.”

* * *

Oliver froze a bit, eyes widening just the slightest as he wavered under her gaze. But he kept his walls up, even if they'd taken quite the beating with just a single focused word. A word that, on the surface seemed completely off topic. But it was more than just a little relevant. She was a sly one, Emily Kaldwin, and it was his mistake to have underestimated how well she could read people.

He swallowed dryly, the corner of his lip twitching as he struggled to find the right words to say, to speak. Without every bit of information all laid out upon a silver platter like fruit ripe for the picking, he found himself stumbling over thoughts that whirled through his mind aimlessly, with no clear organization nor structure. He wondered for a moment as the silence lay thick, as though icing on a very bittersweet cake, if she realized that there were no restraints any longer, nothing holding them back but the clothes that they wore and their own stubborn pride.

He knew the best option was to fade into oblivion, to perhaps die right then and there and decay into a pile of ashes, brittle and crumbling, with only a broom and dustpan to look forward to. But he knew the chances were not high. So he opted for the second best option, which was to pull some pathetic dodge tactic out of his sleeve and whip it out like a line. Hopefully he'd hook her off somewhere away from this topic. His tongue was the bait.

"And you, certainly one to talk, are you not? So dreadfully bored up in that study of yours watching the world pass you by. You threaten me but your words are hollow because you know, you are absolutely certain, that if some pair of hulking guards were to drag me out by my arms and throw me onto the streets you would be subject to the merciless cold again, the Void would devour you hungrily and watch you seethe at its mercy. Indulge me Emily; are you afraid of what I might do, or afraid of what you _will_ do?" he questioned, brows raising expectantly. He'd moved closer. He wasn't aware of it when it had happened but he noticed now.

* * *

Emily heard his words. Heard in them his attempts to distract her. She’d broken him in some way. Loosened all his little knots so he was coming apart at the seams. She’d figured something out about him, at least, if not everything. And the knowledge brought her comfort, and power. He couldn’t get under her skin. Not like this. He couldn’t anger her, couldn’t scare her, if she knew he chose words to do just such a thing.

She wouldn’t send him away from the tower. She’d keep him close enough to serve his purpose. ...But only that close. She couldn’t let him any closer.

Yet he _was_ closer.

 _Very_ close.

She could feel the warm breath of his questions dancing over her skin. Her gaze was leveled on him, assessing.

He had a point, to some extent. The Void was a terrifying entity. He quieted it, made it easier to control. Therefore she needed him. But he’d revealed a weakness. Should she be scared of him? She had no reason to be. He wouldn’t hurt her, not knowingly -- she knew that for certain now. His words were his skill and his sword. As long as she kept him quiet, she’d remain safe. He’d be her shield.

The only doubt she held wasn’t fear that he would hurt her. No, she worried something else. If he found the words - at the right time, with the right vocabulary - he had a way of entrancing her. Mesmerizing her. Fascinating her. And that was what worried her. That was the threat to her power: not pain, but pleasure.

So she would have to control that, too. Mitigate the risk. Keep him docile.

She reached a finger up, hooking it under his chin. “I don’t fear you,” she informed him calmly, the words mostly true, as her thumb traced his rough jaw, her touch light. She wondered if she could lull him the way Delilah did her suitors. If she could speak like silk in his ear and bind him to her. If she would even want to. Her conscience already wavered, and all she tried to do was keep him quiet. If she ever tried to manipulate him into action, her conscience would surely stop her.

But of course, she wasn’t trying to get him to act now, just stop him from acting. Which is why she took the calculated risk, sure she could tame him, and brought him closer, turning at the last moment to place a tender kiss on his cheek. If she could keep him speechless… She just wanted to keep him speechless.

* * *

Surprise crossed his face, and his eyes flickered over her expression with a bit of uncertainty, something apprehensive in his movements now. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch. Certainly now was no change from every other time.. right?

But she was so tempting with her doe brown eyes and the honey tint to her skin, the curvatures of her structure even in the dim light where his eyes were still adjusting. His lids lowered, attention directed completely on her once more. He had expected a challenge from her, but he hadn't expected her to be so completely exhilarating. Before, when he was floating through the Void, when he spoke to her through muddied waters, words muffled but still clear as day, she was a point of attraction for reasons he hadn't determined until it was far too late. Now he was sure of it. She had him wrapped around her finger, but she always had. He just wouldn't admit it, and that wasn't going to change any time soon.

He reached up slowly with his uncut hand, running his thumb over the line of her jaw languorously. He was warm this time, almost something like a walking furnace, his fingertips ran with heat, as if he had a fever, as if his hands were on fire. But his touch was not painful. His hand roamed over the edges and up to the side without direction, without method. It was natural, a pure admiration, despite the smugness lining his words.

He was taken aback by her blatant refusal though, the feeling of her lips lingering along his cheek, his eyes widening again. But then he deadpanned as she had earlier, he was far too perceptive to fall for that, his expression all too understanding, which was reflected in the way he spoke as well. "How clever you are," he complimented, but his voice was not complimentary. "The entire Empire would bow to your will, and you're faltering under the pressure of one man? I've seen amateur courtesans charm their ways into the beds of noblemen with more money than half the population of Serkonos itself... Have I really reduced the Empress of the Isles down to such... _predictable_ methods?" he near cooed, his tone clearly patronizing.

* * *

His skin against her tempted her, it did. But she was resolute. Even as his fingertips left hot trails on her, she focused on her goal. She tried to focus on her goal. She mostly focused on her goal.

His flat words patronized her, but she refused to rise to his bait, even as she itched to bite him - an urge she hadn’t expected and quickly dismissed. So her attempt hadn’t worked quite as she wanted. Maybe logic would appeal to him. She still had steady footing. “Faltering?” She raised an eyebrow as she pulled back, shrugging off his touch. If he wouldn’t cooperate, she saw no reason to subject herself to the charge that was his skin on hers. The unfavorable comparison to a sex worker wasn’t exactly charming, but she found herself smirking. Predictable methods, eh? Why bother hiding it. “Alas, you’ve discovered me,” she spoke wryly.

She took a step back, crossing her arms over her chest and ignoring that part of her that wanted back in his embrace. “Well, it seems you’re well aware,” she presented; “I need you.” The words were matter-of-fact, no declaration of love, even as she spoke smoothly, voice like velvet. “You stop the Void, and I need that. But you-” Her eyes raked over him, not hiding that touch of lust that tempted her in his presence, her voice dropping just the slightest bit. “...You _want_ me.”

She forced her heart still, ignoring the way it thudded against her ribs in protest.

If she was talking then he wasn’t.

If he wasn’t talking he couldn’t seduce her.

“I can’t offer you much more than companionship. And rooms in the tower proper - where are you staying now?” She moved past the question before he could answer. “-Plus whatever Corvo’s already giving you. Food, clothes, training, whatever it is. A safe place to live. A steady income.” He’d be a kept man. _Her_ kept man, but still an affair. Her official consort. She doubted it would appeal to him. But it was an honest enough plea. She wouldn’t beg. He was the only thing that stopped the Void. He wouldn’t want her to try and trade sex for protection anyway, she was sure of it. It was demeaning to both of them.

But she knew the basis of her proposal was true. And he would know that as well.

She needed him. He wanted her.

“Maybe we can come to some kind of mutual understanding.”

* * *

If he were a god it wouldn't have mattered. He could imagine it now, he could see it in his mind, the whole scene playing out with him in the Void and her on a platform. If that were the case, her rejection wouldn't have hit him so hard. He would have felt the smallest tug in his chest, his eyes would have flickered to the side and he would have responded with a simple, " _So be it._ "

But he was not a god. Now he was a man. He lost the smug expression he wore, the playful tone to his voice. He dropped the act in favor of another. One of caution, tone going flat, losing the fluctuation to his voice. She did not love him. She probably hardly tolerated him. If not for the Void swarming within her she would have shooed him off, treated him like a child, cold calloused responses, the same way she'd treated him when he approached her before each and every task she completed. She did what she had to do to survive.

In the end, it was his own fault for not recognizing it to begin with. She was hurting, she needed him to stop hurting. It was simple.

He wanted her.

He needed her.

He turned his back to her and walked off, running his fingertips along the desk beneath the window. His fingers slipped over the surface slowly and he counted at least ten things he could see, another five he could hear, three that he could feel. This was reality.

"Not far from here, three halls down near the library where Overseer John reads from books written by the Oracular Order every morning with a cup of coffee and half a scone." He seemed distant again, almost as if he'd completely lost interest. But inside he'd shattered. She could have put it lightly. She could have soothed him into it, like putting a dog down, watching him whimper pathetically, like an imbecile. But she played with him.

And for once, as invigorating as it was while it was happening, there was no payoff, there was no point. But what else did he have? He knew every textbook fact, every facet of human society, every corner of the world, known and unknown, found and unfound. He might as well just go with it.

"What is there that requires understanding? You're making a proposition?" he questioned, not even glancing back at her.

* * *

She wondered briefly, as he turned away, if he’d actually say no. His expression had gone cold, suddenly. She hadn’t expected it, thinking speaking plainly was surely the best way to make her point clear. She’d been prepared to deal with those odd philosophical questions he would hypothesize, with perhaps some more jibes at her character. But she wasn’t prepared for him just walking away. She covered the surprise quickly, smoothing it over with her professional Empress face.

His words irked her. Nonsense, again. Small facts about people she barely knew. Things they probably didn’t want shared to begin with. But she held her tongue and kept her expression neutral, counting the beats of her breath. She’d be patient. He was having a difficult time, and she needed him, truly.

She didn’t know what she would do if he said no. It was a possibility she didn’t want to consider, now that she knew an alternative.

But he wouldn’t say no, would he? Years of protecting her, he wouldn’t stop now.

Oftentimes Emily’s cunning didn’t leave room for her common sense. Or emotional intelligence. She tried, of course, but it wasn’t something she could notice in the moment. She looked for results. It was only after the fact that she would see the callous nature of words she’d chosen for their clarity.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was hollow. Something in her chest ached, a sudden sharp pain, but she pushed it down. They were making a deal here. Focus on business. Even still words echoed back to her from months ago. _You’ve come to proposition me?_

“Yes,” she nodded. “Do you accept? Will you stay with me? Corvo can style you as a sort of valet maybe, or a consort - though I don’t know if you’d be comfortable with that, there’s a bit of gossip that tends to come along with it.” She faltered. It didn’t feel right.

Her voice softened slightly. “We can wait,” she offered. “You don’t have to make a final decision now. I just -- it’s been a week. I _need_ sleep.” The sun was setting outside, and she wondered what time it was.

* * *

"Unlike you, I have no reputation to uphold. I am not subject to... _subjects_. Nor would I care, if I were in the position to. But ultimately, it isn't much my choice, is it Emily? Because like you said earlier, you are the Empress. And me? Aren't I just another one of your citizens, aren't I just another subject to _your_  Empire? Right, so then we've come to an understanding. How quickly you've convinced me." His words were sarcastic and perhaps a little bitter, but he seemed just as unamused as usual.

"So then, what is it you have in mind that I do? Would you have me lay on the floor, or perhaps sit in a display case? The radius of my presence isn't particularly large, larger than average by human standards only because of previous arrangements, but still not much to work with of course." He tilted his head but he still didn't turn to meet her gaze.

He was so ashamed.

"You'd rather I make my decision quickly, patience has never been your forte, especially when the Void is eating you from the inside out," he added.

* * *

His words, at first a relief, quickly turned on her. They hurt. But she reminded herself: skill and sword. He couldn’t harm her with words. He wouldn’t hurt her.

Yet he did.

But she hid her pain behind a neutral face, forcing her heart from her sleeve to bury it somewhere down deep. Somewhere he couldn’t reach it. Maybe she could fix this mess. She’d find a better way to say what she meant. But then he’d know the effect he had on her - no, she couldn’t give up that power. But-

Guilt stabbed at her insides, but the only change in her face was a slight glance to the side, a few quick blinks.

_Skill and sword._

“Well then.” Her words were nearly as hollow as he’d been. Freed of all emotion. “That’s-” she faltered for just the slightest moment, “-good. That’s good.” It wasn’t. It was horrible. It was twisting her up in knots, but she was too desperate to take the time to fix it. She’d make this better, she promised herself. She promised him, though not aloud. She would make this better, she just needed rest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You may have noticed Void!Emily gets a bit of Emily the Vengeful in her. The Void devours, the Void corrupts. What else can I say?]


	3. Protector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a definite anxiety in his tight lips and sharp eyes, that softened when he spotted his daughter sleeping soundly. He always softened for her. She was his weakness, he was her strength. The most loyal subject she would ever have.

Emily was asleep within five minutes of her head hitting the pillow.

She’d offered the bed to him, after realizing he’d made a good point -- not wanting to just summon servants to her room with a cot only to explain the sudden appearance of a man. She offered to sleep on the divan. But he’d refused, so she slipped under her covers despite the still setting sun, and was out in an instant.

She was still asleep some time later, when an assertive knocking came at her door. “Your Majesty.” It was Corvo, his voice typically gruff but perhaps a bit on edge. A harder knock. “Emily.” She didn’t stir.

* * *

Oliver had taken his seat on the couch and for several minutes he sat at the end with his back against the arm and his knees tucked to his chest. His shirt had gotten a bit wrinkled -- which annoyed him to no end, but otherwise he remained pretty presentable. It was when she passed out that he buried his hands in his hair, tugging at it and grumbling to himself unsteadily, trying to remain quiet. Though he was certain that no amount of his angsty bickering would actually wake her.

He left it that way, disheveled and tossed about, figuring he could fix it later before she woke. He knew that wouldn't be for another long while but he was a patient man.

He was a man.

He breathed out. Breathed in, capturing the breath and holding it there, bringing his hand up, now raw with a cut that had stopped bleeding, and he stroked the thin line across his throat before breathing out again.

He was a man who had survived.

His eyes flickered over to the door at the sound of the knock and for a split second he weighed his options. Leave and disturb her sleep, open the door and disturb her sleep, or, hide. Yes. That seemed to be, in his now very much alive and human mind, the best course of action in the moment. But once he found himself hidden behind the royal purple drapery, silk covering the expanse of his body as he leaned back against the cold window, he realized that this perhaps was in fact _not_ the best course of action.

He realized this of course, when it was too late. So he would ride this out and hope to the very Void itself and beyond that Corvo wasn't on high alert like the watch dog he was trained to be.

* * *

A louder knock. “Emily, I’m coming in.” And in another minute he was in the door. While not frenzied per se, there was a definite anxiety in his tight lips and sharp eyes, that softened when he spotted his daughter sleeping soundly. He always softened for her. She was his weakness, he was her strength. The most loyal subject she would ever have.

Corvo took soft steps to her bedside, sitting on the edge. He remembered doing this same thing back when she was younger -- especially during the rat plague and right after it, right after Jessamine…

With a gentle hand he smoothed the hair from her face, pausing just a moment to feel her temperature. She hadn’t been well lately. She’d been hiding it - attempting to hide it - but he wasn’t as easily fooled as some others in the tower. He’d planned to give her another couple days to fix it herself before he would send Hypatia straight to her. Still, now she seemed at peace, cocooned in a deep sleep.

He leaned down and placed a bristly kiss on her forehead. All this responsibility, and she was still a kid. But she’d always be a kid to him. His kid.

The last week she’d been restless and seemed steeped in hectic energy, but now she was just a young woman in slumber. “You’re gonna be okay, Em,” he assured her sleeping form, giving her hand a squeeze. He looked down at the gloves that still covered her hands even in sleep - not knowing if she’d ever be called from bed, or walked in on. His eyes were pained again, reminded of the struggle she now faced, all because he hadn’t been there, hadn’t done his job well enough. He’d failed her, when she needed it most. But she’d come out of it as strong as ever -- stronger, even. “You’re a good kid.” He pulled the blankets up a little further around her, and held her hand again. “I’m proud of you, Em. And I’m gonna keep you safe. I promise.” He never got to talk like this to her anymore. Not after 14, where anytime he got emotional she would roll her eyes and make gagging sounds. But she couldn’t tell him off now. And he needed to tell her things like this sometimes.

Satisfied his daughter was peaceful and comfortable, he turned his attention to the rest of the room. Eyes scanned over every surface as he did the cursory Royal Protector scan, the same he did every time he escorted her to some new location. He didn’t go check her drinks for poison - not right this second, anyway - but he looked over the entrances and exits, checked for weak spots in security. His eyes narrowed, lips thinning into a hard line as he spotted the shape in the curtains. Assassin? If they were, they weren’t particularly good at it.

Quick, silent steps, circling around from the side. He couldn’t quite see the figure, but he was sizing them up already. His arm shot out, wrapping around what should be the neck area, pressing the tip of his crossbow into the side of the - man? Seemed like it was a man, too tall for most women. “Hands where I can see them.” A quick glance to the bed. “And keep quiet.” He wasn’t about to wake Emily if he didn’t need to.

* * *

Oliver listened and closely so, eyes closed as he grinned faintly. He'd always been so fixated on the bond they shared, his own father having been... not the greatest, to say the least. And perhaps he'd also been just the slightest bit envious as well. But his parents were long gone, even before he'd been cast into the Void on that awful day in the Month of Darkness. Billie was the closest he had to a mother these days but if he were being honest she was far more a sister than anything, or at least, he felt he could trust her more than he could trust a mother. Then again, he didn't exactly know the standards here.

He had no frame of reference for that kind of-

Oh.

His eyes widened and his whole body tensed, adrenaline rushing again. "I assure you that waking Emily is the exact opposite of what I'm here for," he whispered back, bright wide eyes flickering over as best as they could in an attempt to meet his. "I can explain this, and with a fair amount of eloquence, but I urge you not to stab me and to remain calm and rational."

* * *

Corvo’s eyes flashed angrily. “I told you no contact with the rest of the tower.” His voice was only slightly gruffer than normal. Irritated, not infuriated. “How hard is that for you to understand?” He lowered his weapon but still pulled Oliver out from his hiding place, stepping between his daughter and the former god. He looked over him in a quick assessment. Messy hair. Wrinkled clothes.

“What are you doing in my daughter’s bedroom?” And he was talking about his daughter, not just the Empress of the Isles. His voice had gone hard, crossbow raising again but not aiming. Not that he’d need to at such close range. He glared at the man who’d been cowered in the corner of his daughter’s room. He had a lot of explaining to do. As much as Corvo trusted Emily, if he were to double it, that’s how much he _didn’t_ trust Oliver. At least, around his daughter.

* * *

"Now I am... fully aware of how this looks." He glanced down at the crossbow and his eyes flickered back up to Corvo, then to Emily. "... And I am also aware of how much explaining this might require." He  took a deep breath and anxiously ran a hand through his hair, a habit he was quickly beginning to develop over his past few months of being human. He supposed it was better than nail biting or fidgeting to the point of distraction.

He thought for a moment, trying to gather himself and the words he would use, considering the rhetoric with which to approach the subject and deciding that starting off with 'My dear Corvo' would probably get him an arrow between the eyes... or somewhere else a bit unsavory.

"There are things you take for granted, when you're a human, when you can feel everything so much that it fades from your awareness and easily becomes nothing but noise in the background of everyday life. Sensations were luxury in the Void. To surpass anything but a cold, numb, nothing was bliss, and to be deprived from basic human... basic functions of sentience... _existing_... for four thousand... for many long years-" He found himself stumbling over his words, stopping a moment to catch himself. Corvo Attano did not know his origins, his story. This would all be foreign to him, it was difficult to explain to someone when it felt so out of context.

He hadn't noticed it before, the fear that had settled within his chest, tightening, tugging, pulling him into himself. He wasn't afraid of Corvo Attano, but the idea that he might never see Emily again, the idea that all of this would sound like rubbish to a man who had little time to entertain him. He wondered for a moment if it were even worth explaining, if words themselves could ever do justice to the way that he felt that night.

"The Void watched. It stared, it commanded and I obeyed. And sometimes I would wonder if it were the hollow breeze of oblivion or the quiet cackling of the presence that kept me bound to an existence without existing. I knew, before Billie ventured to Shindaerey Peak, before Daud told her his plan, that in weeks time I would fade, and I would be liberated in one way or another. But even death itself could never fill the emptiness, the jagged hole that had been left when they... I approached Emily several months ago and we shared a drink and conversed and though I undoubtedly should have asked for your blessing before appearing before her so late at night and - I did not have time nor did I think that-  o-or even expect that-..." He took a deep breath and he stared away, guilt clear on his face even if it were masked loosely behind the stoicism that was so characteristic of _him_.

"When I kissed her I wasn't aware it would have such explosive consequences... Not until it was already set in stone. There is a wound within her that invites the Void, and it is closing, slowly, but the more that she utilizes her abilities, the more it opens and tempts her. It troubles her late into the night, to the point that the simple human function of sleeping has now become something of a rarity. Because of my... unique connection, tether, to the Void, my presence seems to tame it, which allows her to sleep, among other things." He still didn't look up, swallowing harshly, a sweat pricking at his brow.

* * *

The younger man’s talk of 'sensations' wasn’t making it any better. Corvo’s eyes narrowed. His suspicions didn’t disappear as Oliver explained - or tried to explain - some aspect of being... Void-bound, for lack of a better term. Corvo very nearly rolled his eyes at the florid language. The kid was almost as bad as Wyman with their poetry. But that reaction quickly stilled.

His eyes stared daggers into the man who tripped over words of late-night rendezvouses and of asking for his blessing.

Even under his anger he had to acknowledge it; this kid was so damn stupid. Corvo had known better that to mention anything to Jessmine’s father the first time they ever- they were ever- … _intimate_. He hadn’t mentioned it to the man at all, actually: Jessamine had, and that was after the affair was already underway. Hells, the guy could’ve saved them both a lot trouble if he’d just kept his damn mouth shut. But he’d said it now. And Corvo had heard. And he wasn’t happy.

 _When you **kissed** her?!_ He bit his tongue to stop from shouting at the former god, hearing out the rest of his story. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure the rest was any better. Emotions battled within him -- primarily anger, that the punk had been so reckless, so selfish, so _irresponsible_ as a god. It was one thing to go after heretics that writhed in hedonistic worship, but to set his sights on the _Empress_. On a woman - a _girl_ , only 25 - who only took his Mark out of necessity. Corvo’s jaw was firm as he shook his head with disdain at the black-haired boy who cowered before him. The 'among other things' comment had him wincing and groaning - he didn’t want to know what other things. He really didn’t. And he didn’t want to know how Oliver knew.

And now he was left in the uncomfortable position of figuring out this whole situation. If he took Oliver away, he’d be hurting Emily. Protecting her, in a way, but - on a more immediate level - hurting her. If he let Oliver stay, he risked losing his still young and still perhaps not the most sound-in-judgment daughter to the temptations of the Outsider. At least the younger man’s words seemed sincere. And scared, which was good. He should be scared.

A moment of silence passed as Corvo weighed his options.

Finally, he put away the crossbow, straightening himself.

“Well you can’t leave,” he said flatly - an order. “You stay here now. Any time she needs to sleep, you’re here, you hear me?” He jutted an authoritative finger at the man. “And if she needs - whatever else she needs. You do it.” He had no idea what the situation was, entirely, but whatever it was; Emily’s well-being was top priority. “But by no means will you ever be touching my daughter, understand? You keep your hands off of her; I keep my hands off of you.”

* * *

Oh how he _wished_ he could fade into nothing right now. How he so desperately desired the sweet embrace of nonexistence would sweep him off his feet and take him away from this awful, compromising situation. His eyes met Corvo's and something shattered within him, making his knees a little weak.

He hadn't realized it before, but even if he wasn't that scared of Corvo, he certainly was a terrifying man.

He nodded though, expression hardening in his sad attempt to save face. He went cold, stoic, impassive and unreadable. Even though he was beginning to ponder whether or not coming to the tower in the first place had even been the best course of action. No. Of course it was. Emily needed him, so he would be here. Besides... it felt nice to feel needed.

"It was the arrangement made after our conversation in the hidden chambers behind the fireplace near Dr. Hypatia's lab. She'd been on her way there in her silken nightgown with her hair draped down her..." He stopped himself there. Perhaps he should leave some things unspoken. Imagery set aside.

"I was to sleep here, she was to sleep there and converse with you on the matter in the morning," he explained, trying to change the subject.

* * *

Corvo stiffened as he mentioned the secret room. That was Jess’s place. That was _his_ place now. He winced further as the boy went on. “Just-” Corvo held out a hand, “Just... _stop talking_.”

A brief pause, and luckily the topic was changed. The arrangements seemed… Glancing to Emily, Corvo nodded in reluctant agreement. So his daughter had made a smart choice after all. He really should trust her more.

He did trust her.

Just maybe not her hormones.

“She made the right choice. And I’ll be discussing it with her in the morning. In the meantime, I’ll be sleeping right here.” He promptly lay down on the ground between the couch and Emily’s bed, sending Oliver another glare. “Goodnight.” And with that he turned away from the man. He may not be falling asleep, but he was done listening to the former god pining over his daughter.

* * *

Oliver stared at Corvo, eyes widening faintly. He had definitely said something wrong. Perhaps multiple things but he wished people would tell him instead of expecting him to know, instead of scolding him for unintentional wrongdoings. But he was thankful that Corvo hadn't shot him at least. That was good. That was... progress.

He didn't reply, pulling himself back onto the couch and slinking back against the arm, leaning into the fabric with his knees tucked once more to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, almost for dear life. He didn't sleep. He found it difficult to sleep actually, though he hadn't mentioned it to anyone he was sure Billie at least noticed.

The Void didn't have him physically but in spirit, it owned all. Even him. He would visit there sometimes in his dreams, walking the platforms again, wailing leviathans overhead. He would wake up in cold sweats, a numbness taking him just as he woke but fading away once he'd come to.

So he avoided it at all costs. And it wasn't like he'd get a good night's sleep right now even if he tried. Not with Corvo laying there, surely not sleeping either. His stomach grumbled and he realized he hadn't eaten dinner. But he ignored it, the faint aching was nice anyways. It was good to know he was still alive.

Minutes turned into hours but it passed in a blur that he hardly noticed. Notes suddenly began slipping from his closed lips and he hardly realized it himself but he began humming. Perhaps to quell the tense silence that had fallen on the room or maybe out of some odd nostalgia, to feel guilty brought back memories. His mother sick in bed, pale in the face, circles under her eyes as she caressed his cheek with her thumb and her palm. Cold. The Void already had her.

And she would sing to him, there would be a candle flickering somewhere in the room, and he wasn't sure why but her words, her breath that they provoked, it was lined with cold, as if a window had been left open, puffs of mist escaping from her. If this night were good for anything, it was thinking.

A small tear trailed down his cheek and he didn't know why he was sad, but he was.

* * *

If Emily had been aware of the hours passing, she may have cheered once she hit hour three. And then it was five, then eight - _eight!_ \- blissful hours of sleep. When she finally woke it was a solid _ten_ hours later. Ten hours of perfect, pristine, beautiful, euphoric dreamless sleep. Seeing the light from the mostly-risen sun coming in through her windows and lighting her ceiling, Emily blinked. Morning. She’d slept til morning.

“Finally,” she whispered, eyes closed, overflowing with relief. She felt tears falling from her eyes and wiped them away, feeling silly. This shouldn’t be such a big deal, and yet it was. Emily writhed under her sheets, unable to help the joy that filled her, stretching and popping her joints as she woke up. She rejoiced in the act of waking, reveling in the feeling of her bed, arching her back against the mattress and clutching the sheets, letting out a purr of happiness.

She truly felt the sun. And it was beautiful.

She moaned with one final stretch, toes curling and fingers flexing against her headboard, then finally opened her eyes wide to the sun. She couldn’t help the small smile gracing her lips. It was a glorious day.

She rolled over, grabbing for the whale bone comb as she often did, starting in on the ends of her hair as she sat up, her whole body shuddering delightedly with newfound energy. It was a good day to be--

She stopped as her eyes spotted the Outsider. He didn’t appear to be sleeping.

* * *

At first he'd watched her, eyes flickering over her stirring body. But near immediately he turned his gaze away, not only to respect Corvo's wishes but also because he didn't want to tempt himself, didn't want to stare for too long that he might start desperately desiring her, that his hands might ache just to touch her. So he turned his gaze, lids lowered halfway, staring out the window and onto the water.

He told himself he didn't need her. He told himself over and over and over again until he was near mouthing it. He would find someone else, no, better yet, he would grow old and die alone like the vast majority of humans. She was not his belonging, he could not stare at her as such, you must restrict the wandering gaze.

He felt his stomach churning now. So that would make a total of two hungers he was now holding at bay. At least he could hopefully soon satiate one of them. He would get over the other. He would tell himself so much that he would start to believe it.

He hoped.

* * *

She felt a plethora of things as he turned away. A bit embarrassed that he’d spotted her rather frivolous response to the morning. Surprise that he was still there -- then again, she reasoned, that was surely why she’d made it to morning at all, but she was still mystified he’d stayed. There was also shame over her behavior the day before, mortification at the failed seduction, guilt at how he’d shut down in those last few moments. Gratefulness that he hadn’t abandoned her.

She felt her hard wall of the day before softening. Of course _now_ she was beginning to understand. Now that she’d already made all of the mistakes. Now she saw how she could have been gentler, kinder, could have given him the touch - the simple affection - he so obviously longed for without viewing it all as some game of power. That wasn’t what it was to him, was it? Just to her. Just to her mind, brought up in halls where power was a monitored commodity, traded and withheld and redeemed by people with pretty clothes and ugly ambitions.

She shook her head, trying to get her thoughts straight, feeling some already slipping from her mind as they might through a sieve. At the very least she should apologize.

Emily leaned forward, crawling to the edge of the bed. “I-”

She cut herself off, at the sight of her father fast asleep on the floor. Her jaw dropped slightly, eyebrows furrowing then immediately raising in shock, a quick bounce of movement that would have surely been comical had she been aware of it. She looked to the Outsider, then gestured silently to her father’s body, cocking her head in question. _All night?_ she mouthed. She’d never heard him come in. As she glanced down again, she felt a blush rising in her cheeks. By the seven bloody strictures - he’d seen the Outsider, then. She winced. That would take some explaining.

* * *

He was beginning to hope for a lot of things lately, one of those being that _she_ would be the one to explain everything to him. With her, words came naturally, as if he were in the Void, as if he could pick and choose from every word in the whole language just sitting at his disposal, waiting to be properly utilized in the most advantageous ways possible. But with Corvo he couldn't coordinate, he felt awkward, less of a man when the other towered above, gaze so dark and piercing, face twisted into a glare.

And then there was the other part of him, shut away under lock and key, the one that knew why he was so hardened on the outside, had witnessed every scar he'd gotten, from the competition in Karnaca to the slips along rooftops or the metal searing the skin of his chest throughout his months in Coldridge.

It was difficult to start a relationship with someone whom he knew near every tiny, intimate detail about, when the other knew little to nothing about himself.

It was especially difficult to speak without making comments that would assuredly seem malicious. He didn't _want_ that. He just had no other means of communicating, his few years as a child scraping by in Tyvian alleyways, barely escaping death at every corner had taught him near nothing where emotions came into play and these last few months? These months on a ship with _Billie Lurk_ , a woman who's passion translated into how hard she hit, how well she proved herself? She wasn't much better at it either.

Not since Deirdre. It'd gotten even worse after Daud.

He nodded in response to her question, though passively, with no clear expression on his face. She was now a business partner. Nothing more. He would let her know that, he would be firm and strong enough to keep himself contained. He had stared the Void in the face for four thousand years and _it had blinked first_.

* * *

Emily wanted to be exasperated at her father’s protective nature - and honestly, she was, to some extent - but she found herself with a tiny soft smile as she looked down at Corvo on the floor. He was her strength, she was his weakness.

She glanced to the standing clock. Just past 5:30. A bit early, but it wasn’t as though Corvo would be mad at her for waking him. Whether or not she _wanted_ to wake him was another matter. She had to consider the conversation that would inevitably follow. Her eyes flicked briefly to the Outsider, trying to greet his expressionless demeanor with patience instead of pain. She would find a way to make it right. She would. She didn’t want him hurting.

She hesitated there for a moment, looking at her father, her indecision visible -- a rare occurrence. But here, in her own room, this early in the morning, after the most satisfying night of sleep she’d ever had; her guard was down. Examining Corvo’s sleeping face, she imagined the questions he might ask. She wondered how much the Outsider had told him. If he was smart, not quite everything. Had he explained the corruption of the creeping Void? Even now she sensed its presence, though far away and not so vicious as it had been before. The longer she spent around him, the weaker the pull of the Void was.

She could have kissed him for that.

She wouldn’t. A kiss given in gratitude wasn’t what he wanted - at least, she didn’t think so. Still, her lips tingled at the prospect. Her body felt free of the tar-like tendrils of the Void for the first time since - well, since he’d kissed her those months ago. She felt light and airy and as though her vision was suddenly clearer than ever before. A part of her even felt confident that if she needed to she could access the abilities of the Void, too, without being destroyed in the process. She didn’t intend to test the theory.

Emily’s gaze drifted back to the Outsider, her warm eyes clear and bright, untouched by the Void, her judgment unhindered. Instead of buzzing in her head, questions floated calmly, waiting for her to pluck them from her thoughts and vivify them with her tongue.

She kept her voice low, just a hair above a whisper, trying not to wake her father. “Thank you. Truly. I can’t possibly express how grateful I am-” She stopped as Corvo twitched, watching him for a moment, verifying he still slept, before her eyes returned to the Outsider. “...How much does he know?” The question was tentative, curious.

* * *

He was unaffected by her voice, only letting his eyes linger on hers and nowhere else. No longer would he indulge temptation. He would bury the desire to study her from afar, with her wild hair and half waking expression, clothing disheveled and wrinkled in some places but form fitting... oh so very form fitting.

By the _Void_.

When he noticed the twitch in Corvo's features he immediately tensed, slowly shaking his head and turning his gaze away at her question. Too much, is what he was compelled to answer with, but he didn't, lips pursed together in a thin line, eyes dimmer than they were the night before. Perhaps it was a lack of passion, or perhaps a lack of sleep. It was probably both actually.

Physically he was exhausted but his mind was whirling. He had things to write, things to do, things to distract himself with. But he was at least grateful that she'd said thank you, it made him feel just the tiniest bit better about the whole situation.

"Everything," he said simply, which was vague in itself. "We kissed without his blessing, and through selfishness I cursed you," he added, his voice quiet, barely above a whisper. He failed to mention the fact that Corvo probably thought they'd done far more than that.

Probably because he didn't realize that was what Corvo thought.

Because no one told him anything.

* * *

Emily’s eyes caught the way he looked at her father, the way he turned away. Something had certainly come to pass between the two of them. And with his words she immediately understood what.

Her eyes widened, mortified. “ _EV-_ ” Her voice came out far too loud, and she quickly glanced down nervously as she lowered her voice. “ _Everything?_ ” She couldn’t even focus on her feelings about the rest of his words. Was he completely daft? She felt a blush rising up her chest at the prospect of her father knowing about their… brief intimacy. He tended to assume the worst, to blow things a bit out of proportion, at least when it came to his daughter’s love life. She could remember his lecture to Alexi about her responsibility to the Watch, how she couldn’t let her relationship with Emily affect it in any way -- how he’d gone out of his way to make sure she was never posted alone when she took duty in the tower, even _after_ they’d broken off the affair. Wyman had gotten the same treatment, until Emily had stepped in and brokered a peace. And she could only imagine it was worse with the Outsider than with any previous suitors -- Corvo wasn’t exactly inclined to favor the former deity. And with the strictures - the wanton flesh, and all that - the Outsider didn’t exactly have a pristine reputation.

Emily shook her head. She’d need to iron this out, and quickly. She wondered if she could sneak the Outsider into her safe room without waking Corvo. It would probably be better if he wasn’t there.

Thoughts immediately shifting into problem-solving mode, she performed a quick maneuver with the comb she held, reviewing the rest of his words, until it held her hair back decently well, wedged in a complex knot. She was suddenly slightly irritated. “You don’t need to ask for his blessing.” She tried to keep her voice as a whisper. “That’s just… insulting,” she added with a disapproving look. “I make my own decisions, my father doesn’t speak for me. If it were his way, I’d still be a virgin.” The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them, but then the deed was done. “And I’d never have kissed _anyone_ ,” she added, though it was a bit too little too late.

Corvo stirred.

“You should leave,” Emily spoke apologetically, truly feeling bad about cutting him out of the loop, but she knew he’d only serve to distract Corvo, and that would prevent any sort of resolution.

* * *

Oliver's thoughts drifted back to the days before the contest in Karnaca, how religious Corvo's mother had been, how so very sweet and loving she was towards him, but how adamant she was about him following those seven guiding strictures, even if she rarely directly enforced them. They were her morals, so he figured in some way, they were also Corvo's.

"It is respect, Emily," he suddenly spoke, standing up. "It is not that he owns you -- despite what you think, not everyone in the Empire is working against you, or actively attempting to sabotage your rights," he scolded, clearly not in a great mood. He stepped past Corvo with near perfect silence, the grace in his step clear even if he were typically on the clumsy side.

"Corvo Attano is a great man who's made sacrifices in his short lifetime that the strongest men in history would shudder at the thought of. To have his blessing would be the greatest of accomplishments. Like it or not you are his _daughter_ and thus he does have some say in your life, and at the very least, a right to his own opinions. Cast aside your petty rebellion for a few moments and you might see things the slightest bit clearer than you had before." He turned the door handle, opening it and glancing back at her. "And perhaps you should show a bit more gratitude to one of the only people in the Empire who genuinely cares about your well-being rather than dismissing him or stepping on him like hardened dirt beneath your polished boots." He shut the door behind him, an unreadable expression on his face. It sounded as though he were warning her, but his tone was chiding, his brows furrowed but not in anger, knitted together in _hurt_.  
  
It did hurt. It felt like regardless of the steps he took, he would always land on eggshells, cracking under his weight, shifting, crumbling. There was no winning with either of them. Tell the truth and they disapproved, lie and they were infuriated, say nothing at all and he was being dismissive. His patience was wearing thin.

* * *

Emily’s lips thinned into a taut line as he chided her. She took steady breaths, reminding herself to be patient. He was tired and grumpy. His power came from his words; he would use them to keep himself safe, and to him that meant scolding her. She wasn’t even that mad about his words. He made a decent point, it was just the way he assumed her thought process that was irritating as all hells.

Of _course_ she knew Corvo wasn’t trying to ‘sabotage her rights’ - he loved her. She loved him, of course she did, he was her father and she respected his opinions. But she sometimes had to remind him that she wasn’t a child anymore. If the Outsider thought he might shame her for taking advantage of her father, he obviously hadn’t been paying close attention to their relationship.

Emily respected her father tremendously. He was a great man, and she didn’t need anyone telling her that. She saw it clearly enough. No ‘petty rebellion’ could cloud the pristine (if imperfect) image her father held in her eyes. Everyone who looked on their relationship with scorn, calling him weak-willed or her spoiled, knew nothing. They were the only family they had. No grandparents to help shoulder the burden, no siblings, no aunts, uncles, cousins. _Not anymore, anyway._ She knew he was strong. Knew he was brave. She loved him more than she could ever love a partner, of that she was sure. She owed him her life a thousand times over. And if the Outsider couldn’t understand that she wouldn’t explain it to him.

She watched the Outsider pout his way out of the room. And he called _her_ childish.

“He’s got a point, you know.” Corvo looked up at her once the door had closed, sitting up, in good humor despite the tense exit of their guest.

She shook her head, wryly. “You know I appreciate you, Father.”

He pulled himself to a standing position, wincing at stiffness left over from sleeping on a crossbow, turning that small bristly smile on his daughter. “Of course I know, Em.” He slung his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against him in a clumsy hug, kissing the top of her head. “But really,” his voice was conspiratorial, “I keep wondering when I’ll get that parade in my honor. Or a statue.” She grinned and pushed him away. “Don’t forget the boat. I need a boat named after me,” he added with a grin, knocking her arm aside and swooping in for a full-on hug, nearly pulling her from the bed.

“Father!” She laughed, knocking him with her shoulder playfully before slipping her arms around him, too. Maybe his little tirade had made her realize one thing: they didn’t hug enough.

With one last quick squeeze she pulled away, adjusting herself until she sat on the edge of the bed, letting out a huff of breath. “Okay. Fun time’s over. We need to talk.”

Corvo nodded, accepting her shift in tone with a determined grimace, the threat of a lecture entering his voice. “Yes we do.”


	4. Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a new and heartening experience to actually look forward to sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tw for an awful lot of horror imagery]

Oliver's morning was filled with its usual occurrences, despite the night being so incredibly unusual. He sat at his desk after a fair amount of bickering with Billie and an entire bowl of porridge, plus some fruit and a few nuts. She had confronted him head on, but she typically did, barking at him about how he hadn't shown up, how the guards had gone searching for him, dragging her around the halls sniffing around for him like bloodhounds.

She stopped though, when she realized that something was off about him. Even after he'd eaten he wore an expression that she'd never seen on him before, eyes averted, lips dropped, not in a frown but in defeat. So she stopped prying and prodding because Billie Lurk knew far too well how annoying it could be to have someone shoving their nose where they didn't belong. That didn't mean she wasn't concerned, though -- or that she wouldn't be asking about it more later.

He appreciated her ability to read the mood; he appreciated her in every aspect. She was a wonder of a woman.

By the time he'd finished writing his letters there was an entire stack beside him. He'd received news back from the man in Karnaca, thanking him for his help, assuring him that the money would only be used for the good of the people, the rest would be donated to the Addermire Institute, where natural philosophers were now flocking after the incident with the Crown Killer had cleared up. He knew that things would get better there. It would take time, as all things did, but it brightened his mood a bit to know that his efforts weren't in vain.

He began sealing envelopes off with hot wax, using his own cufflink symbol. It was a diamond with small divots and a rather intricate inner design. He liked it, even if he never really understood why they were apart of the ensemble the Void had left him with.

* * *

It hadn’t been the simplest of negotiations, but it had be thorough. Emily had assured her father that nothing untoward had happened between herself and who Corvo was now calling _Oliver_ (so she would as well, if she could remember it). It didn’t quite feel right on him, but she would learn to compromise. She explained that she’d made a conscious choice of her own free will, that he’d offered her plenty of chances to say no. He hadn’t coerced her, hadn’t tricked her; it had been a small consensual kiss. The aftermath was unexpected. She doubted the Outsider had had any clue what he’d been doing as it happened.

Corvo was calmed by her patient straightforward explanation. He shook his head with an exasperated sigh, dryly mentioning the unnecessary details the man had shared. Emily had winced. His words, she explained… He liked words. He may not be the best at using them plainly. She herself was still getting used to interpreting his prose.

She shamed her father for keeping the Outsider a secret from her. He explained his wariness over the risks the man may have posed, and sheepishly admitted to the recently received negative results from Dr. Hypatia, who seemed to think he was perfectly fine.

Emily noticed the way her father would refer to the Outsider as ‘the kid,’ and she found it disproportionately amusing.

He explained how Oliver (and Billie Lurk) had arrived at Dunwall Tower, and the work he intended to bring Oliver in on -- investigating the recent unexplained deaths around the Academy of Natural Philosophy.

She, in turn, explained the unsettling pull of the Void. Carefully. She had to remind him multiple times that it wasn’t the Outsider’s fault -- or, at least, not intentionally. She was only just starting to forgive him herself, now that she’d finally managed some rest and a brief respite from its endless hunger. Even as she explained she felt it on the edge of her mind. It was coming for her. She didn’t know how long it would take to return, but she knew it was coming. A thin ringing in her ears had begun about half an hour after the Outsider had left her side, and it remained a constant noise in her head, steadily growing louder throughout the day. His presence fended it off, but didn’t destroy it. She wondered if she ever could. Killing the Outsider was one thing. Killing the Void was laughable. They wouldn’t destroy it - they didn’t need to, didn’t want to - but there must be a way to sever her ties.

Finally, after long hours of discussing, explaining, and occasionally arguing, a resolution was reached. They would have tower staff help rearrange things in her bedroom, as inconvenient as it might be. Corvo himself set to arranging sleeping quarters closer to the door inside the safe room, placing a temporary cot in place of the current sofa. They would be close, but not quite rooming together. He wouldn’t interfere, wouldn’t sleep in the room with them - it was her choice to interact with the man, and he grudgingly trusted her judgment, knowing she knew how important the man was as an ally - but he expected them to each have their own privacy. If Oliver ever got out of line, Emily knew what to do. She, meanwhile, was fairly sure it wouldn’t be an issue. His words could lash at her all he wanted, but he’d never strike her, never try to physically force her into anything she didn’t want. And if she fell to temptation it was her own damn fault. She didn’t say that to her father, however; he trusted her, but he didn’t need to know details.

* * *

The move had been rather simple, though he still didn't particularly feel "accepted" he at least felt just the slightest bit better than he had earlier. He tried to keep his mouth shut as he followed the guards, as he followed Corvo, but like a child his eyes wandered, taking everything in, counting all of the sensations he felt, analyzing every painting, every fiber of the carpet. It was jarring really, to be so educated on the history of most things but so very inexperienced simultaneously. He knew grass, he knew it was green, he knew it was cold on spring mornings and dried to a crisp on summer nights, but it'd been from the memories of others that he knew these things. Dim sensations as he remembered them when he was human. 

His senses were buzzing now, which made him fidget, overwhelmed still. He wasn't sure he'd ever get use to being able to understand things so deeply. He was human but he still felt different, isolated.

An Outsider.

No one would truly understand him.

He glanced up at Corvo, the wisps of salt and pepper hair, hardened Serkonan features, piercing dark eyes. He promised himself he would draw the man later, not as he remembered seeing him in the Void, but as he saw him now. He found he enjoyed poring himself over quill and parchment, sketching the things he could see now, with his own eyes, his own perception. Him.

He avoided speaking much to Emily, found himself averting his gaze, tufts of wavy obsidian falling against his forehead each time he bowed his head. He listened, nodding along to instructions barked out by Corvo -- not that Corvo was yelling but mostly because his gravelly Protector tones were very demanding. But he understood, and he took note of the tone he used, the way he moved. He didn't seem angry anymore, only slightly irritated, inconvenienced and riddled with fatherly concern. Which seemed like progress. He couldn't help but wonder how their conversation went, now that he couldn't look back at the things he wasn't present for.

By the end of the night he was settled, equipped with several jars of ink (he very much enjoyed writing by quill rather than typewriter), many stacks of papers, envelopes, and a few other luxuries. He'd have a ring made for him later, which he wasn't very pleased with but he wasn't one to complain.

He was so very tired of wearing rings, especially those of silver.

There were a few candles lit in the royal safe room, flickers of light casting dancing shadows against the walls as they moved. He sat against the back of the chair, a glass cup at his side that was only half filled with dark, honey colored liquor. He liked the burn at the back of his throat and the sweet, spicy aftertaste. It helped him loosen up, which was something he direly needed after the day's events.

* * *

It was a new and heartening experience to actually look forward to sleeping. After a day of steadily growing Void noise, Emily found it a relief when she felt that the Outsider - Oliver - was near. The fading noise settled to a beautiful silence. She could even hear the sea outside. She actually got into bed with a smile on her face. She hadn’t gone to sleep this early in -- well, ever. No, probably since she was a child. But even her ten hours last night hadn’t made up for a week’s worth of missed sleep, and every moment spent with the Void’s maddening hum drilling into her ears was exhausting. It hadn’t been too bad early in the day, but around dinner time it had come back with a vengeance. But then - now - here she was, and she could hear the world around her once more. Her heart was free of ice, her mind free of clinging sludge.

She burrowed into the soft sheets, sighing, nightgown tangling around her thighs as she pulled the blankets from their neatly-tucked corners. Rolling onto her back, she let out another long sigh, letting the day hit her like a train all at once. Her carefully built structures, always holding her up, keeping her energy going, crumbled to dust and she let the exhaustion roll over her, sinking into slumber.

* * *

He spent the first hour or so with ink on paper, sketching out little things: the cats in Karnaca's damp, dingy alleyways; hounds in the pub; the beaks of bloodflies. But then he turned the page and he began to start on Emily's structure; the line of her jaw, the bow to her lips -- his attention to every intimate detail was unparalleled. He wished he had paints, a soft frown washing over him as he imagined the flecks of gold in her irises, the hues of pink playing across her tanned cheeks, the furrow of her bold, sharp brows.

He set it to the side when his head began to buzz. He needed to lay back on the brandy but the taste brought a certain bittersweet nostalgia that he inexplicably clung to. He needed air. He stood, perhaps a bit wobbly as he made his way out of the safe room back door, into the cluttered hallway, and finally onto one of the two symmetrical balconies overlooking the main street. The stars above blinked in and out like dots on a black canvas, clouds lingering a little ways off, signaling a coming storm.

He took a deep breath and leaned against the edge, hands gripping the stone loosely as he mumbled the words of a whaler's song under his raspy breath, letting his thoughts drift off, not realizing that he was most definitely just a tad bit out of radius.

* * *

Emily’s dreams had taken a turn. Or rather, she’d begun to dream.

It started in her throat, it always did: black claws crawling into her mouth, forcing their way down her throat, pumping her lungs full of smoke until she felt they might burst, ribs aching and cracking. From there it spread like disease, poisoning her blood. She felt the stab in her sternum as Daud’s blade pierced her as it had her mother -- a throwback from her old nightmares, made fresh by the way the blade curved out of her on the other side, wrapping around her, wrenching her open inch by excruciating inch, pulling skin tighter and tighter until it burned and split.

The Void seeped into her dreams with abandon - not just her dreams, but her whole body - reveling in its invasion.

If she'd been awake she would've grit her teeth and borne the pain. In her sleep, she whimpered.

Screams, echoes, shrieks, the screech of metal on metal as it grated on itself -- she felt her ears bleed black tar. And she sank, limbs weighed down like lead. She tried to free them, but her wrists stretched like dough, longer and longer, without her hands moving at all -- useless, just tangling around her, a sea of useless excess flesh that piled up around her, burying her, suffocating her. Her hips and legs became stone, trapping her inside, immobile, before chipping and flaking like shale, falling away like brittle bones as she withered and wasted away, each chip a chunk of flesh. Eyes bled black, trailing down her face, eating away at her skin, slicing fine stinging cuts into her neck, then her shoulders, her chest, until all of her burned and stung and itched like mad, invisible lacerations flaying her skin.

And her throat. Always her throat. She couldn’t breathe, she could never breathe -- now the tears of bile that filled her mouth hardened into small marbles, jarring her teeth, choking her as they slipped down her throat to sit like stones in her belly. No, not stones, eggs. Bloodfly larvae, making a home in her gut, their wings beating at her insides, burrowing out through her skin, making a hive of her body, or tunneling back up her throat again, papery wings tangible in her mouth, her teeth chattering in fear crunching on the exoskeletons and molted shells that seemed to endlessly pour from her lips. She would scream if she could, but she had no breath, and her mouth was full, overflowing with one horror or another, until choking on her own blood was the best possible option.

She woke with a start, hands flying to her arms, her chest, feeling holes where there were none, fingers briefly touching gore, stabbing her own viscera, before she realized it wasn’t real.

It felt so real.

She’d been so sure it was real.

Liquid slid down her cheeks and she wiped it away angrily, before looking back at her hand with shock. But no, it wasn’t black, she must have just imagined it, just clear -- just tears. She preferred tears.

Her vision swam with black fog, and she sat up, backing herself against the headboard until her head rested on the wall itself. She wrapped her shaking arms around legs that tremored violently. More tears.

She'd thought it was over.

She’d been so hopeful, so happy, so _sure_ it had been over. She’d found the solution, she knew-

Emily slammed her head back against the wall behind her, the sharp pain in the real world cutting through the phantom sensations of the Void’s dreams. It made her dizzy, but at least it made her present.

The images from her dreams flashed before her eyes, back to just images, the sensations and then the details already slipping away. That was how it worked, the Void. Removing the memories so she could start it all over again another night. Why come up with new terrors when it could just stab her time and time again with-

No, it was gone. Just a lingering throb in her chest, a phantom pain.

* * *

He hadn't noticed it at first, senses dulled with faint intoxication, but his words fell short and his gaze wandered behind him as something stirred at his core. He felt it, a distraught _something_ , his stomach churning faintly. He stepped back through the hall, returning to the safe room, feeling heavier than usual, a dull ache ringing in his temples. Maybe he would lay off of alcohol completely for a long while. 

Dunwall was quiet at night, especially when you were rooming in the tower safe room, where noise didn't get in, or escape. But he heard it, the thud, a soft rustling from the room above -- breathing? He couldn't tell. But he felt wrong. He felt something weighing on his shoulders and the more he stood there wondering what the hells was wrong the heavier it got.

So he figured it was worth it to at least check. He clung to the rail, pushing himself up and even setting his hand on the wall as he felt himself get drowsier. Stairs never felt so difficult until now.

Once he'd finally reached the door, cracked open with a slight breeze brushing through, he peeked into the room. "... Emily?" he called out, not loudly, but within hearing range he hoped. He couldn't see her very well, his eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness of the room.

* * *

She felt his approach like a warm blanket for the frostbite left in the wake of the Void: kind enough, but a bit too little too late. She held her breath as he spoke her name, pushing down the angry sobs that burned in her. Her shoulders spasmed violently, unable to stop, but she stayed quiet. Her fingernails - still gloved, always gloved - dug into opposite wrists, holding herself together. She was trembling, and she hated it. She hated all of it. All the turmoil inside her, the fear, the anger, the complete and utter hopeless emptiness that echoed endlessly in every crevice of her being.

The Void was ravenous, and it had devoured her. Again.

And if she fell asleep again? What nameless torture would she be subjected to then?

She ducked her head, tucking her face into the cradle of her arms, teeth clamping down on trembling lips until blood filled her mouth. The sting was good. The pain was good. It gave her something to focus on.

* * *

Oliver stared for several moments, trying to gather what exactly had happened, but he was piecing the puzzle together rather quickly, especially considering he'd had about roughly four thousand years to work on his deductive skills. He stepped in and settled on the side of her bed. "... I am at fault," he spoke suddenly, his voice quieter than usual, mostly in his attempt to keep anyone from overhearing... Particularly a certain royal protector.

"I knew not the extent to which the kiss might harm you. Over and over I may say that. Though words are meaningless now, even as I string together a tapestry of apologies, even as I sit here and ponder all of the ways I could have not given in to temptation, how much happier you'd be now, without such a burden on your shoulders. I consider the way the Void felt as it stirred within me, torturing me, every moment was a blur, living in a perpetual state of drowning. Existing, but outside of time, seeing what was and what was not. I can offer you my tapestry, Emily, regardless of whether or not you take it. It would change nothing, it would not reverse what I have done. But instead of an apology I can, in place, make a promise. I will make it better." He nodded and glanced at her. "This won’t happen again, I'll be careful. I'll be considerate, I'll be _patient_. I promise you that," he said firmly, setting a hand over hers carefully.

* * *

She tried to keep her breathing even. Her inhales shook madly and she held them, as long as she could, before letting out trembling breaths. His words did comfort her. They hurt her, in a way, too; blaming herself just as much, and feeling sorry for him as well, only looking for a respite from the very pain she’d just been experiencing.

Emily had needed his promise, though she hadn’t realized it until it was given. She’d still been scared, part of her, that he would run. They didn’t know how to communicate with him. It wouldn’t be out of the question for him to just leave. Not particularly _wise_ , but possible.

His hand on hers made her heart stop for the briefest moment. It was like dipping her hand in fresh sun-warmed water. So much more than his mere presence. It burned a tiny hole through the darkness surrounding her. She needed to keep that light. It was magic. It was ethereal and beautiful, and the relief of it caused a new rush of tears. But she needed more.

With a hard, sharp swallow, Emily cursed propriety, cursed her nerves, and lunged for him. She wrapped her arms around him, dragging herself into his lap, ducking her chin and resting her forehead against his chest, breathing deep, still shaking. Her fingers clenched fists in his clothes, desperately hanging onto him.

It was the best decision she’d ever made. It was as though she’d wrapped herself around a floodlight. Remnants of the Void bubbled off of her and disappeared into the night. She tried to hold it in, but she felt the cry of relief escape even as she fought to choke it back. The most noise she’d ever made during these nights, and it was almost silent. More blood in her mouth as she bit her lip again, holding back sobs. She hated being weak like this. Hated it. But she _needed_ him. She needed him for these moments, when she was broken, to help hold her together. She was splinters and he was glue and if she held them together long enough, tight enough, she’d be whole again.

* * *

In that moment he thought of all of the times he could have looked away. All of the times he could have let her suffer. But he didn't. He had always wondered what it was back then, that drew him towards her. It had never been romantic, nor sexual, mostly because those were two complicated things he could never think to understand in his dulled, torturous existence. Perhaps it was familiarity; he understood her situation far too well and that human bit of him that he struggled to maintain reached out desperately to guide her, to lead her away from the exploitation. To preserve her childish innocence. That purity was begrudgingly taken away the moment she watched her mother die, so it couldn't have been that. He closed his eyes and focused on her warmth, trying not to think too much about it.

Thinking about things, what a dangerous pastime.

What he felt in the moment was not the tension from before, it was not primal lust, nor any perverse minded inclination. It was acceptance, it was contentment, satisfaction, among several other things. It was really something, to be needed -- he just hoped he was wanted.

His fingers stroked down the line of her back and rested there. He dragged them up and down in some attempt to soothe her, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned down and kissed the top of her head, speaking no words for once, because he had none, he only had himself, hoping that would be good enough.

The scent of spices lingered on him mixed with the odd wildflowers that intermingled with his natural scent. He'd been drinking, and that was obvious by his breath. After several moments a noise rumbled from his chest, a hum, tunes of baritone escaping his slightly parted lips. The song he couldn't get out of his head. It was slowly paced, bittersweet. It was the only thing he could think to do in the moment. Void, he could hardly think at all.

* * *

It felt like hours she spent swallowing cries, even as a near constant stream of tears fell from her eyes. She hated tears. She hated crying. She cried in complete silence, every breath held til her throat burned and her chest might burst, hiding her shame, her weakness. She still shook.

Hands that had been wrapped around his back pulled inward as her whole body curled up, becoming small. She grabbed at the front of his shirt instead, nuzzling into him again, until his scent filled her lungs. He smelled beautiful. Not just pleasant, actually _beautiful_ \-- she could see the colors of every note of his scent.

Silent hiccups wracked her body. His hands on her back soothed her, melting away the tremors of horror that had shaken her so thoroughly as to give her a headache.

His silence was perfect. If he had spoken she would have needed to acknowledge her cries, her fears, would’ve needed to define what exactly was happening between them. His silence, like hers, let her pretend it wasn’t happening.

As his lips pressed gently against the crown of her head, she shifted again, pressing her body into him, bare skin against the fabric of his clothes. Her movements were lessening, silent sobs reduced to the occasional shiver. Her ear pressed to his chest as he hummed, sucking her wounded lip nervously, the last flow of the blood already stemmed, though it still remained swollen.

Another moment. And another.

The tension in her body gradually eased, leaving her exhausted again, eyes heavy and limbs loose and leaden. She found it hard to open her eyes, and not just from their puffy bloodshot state. She was so tired. So very tired.

* * *

For once he didn't care that his shirt would be wrinkled, that his hair might be disheveled. He rocked her back and forth at a slow pace, going quiet as he suddenly pulled her back, movements careful but swift. He laid her down and found that she wasn't very heavy at all, her lithe figure curled against his as he held her still, now laid beside her sprawled along the length of the bed. She needed to sleep. He also perhaps needed to sleep. It had been a few days.

His head was aching still.

He kept his eyes closed, reaching up to run a hand through her hair as he'd been dreaming to do in these past few months. It was as soft as he remembered, softer even, now that his senses were mostly back in order. But his hands moved at a rhythm, some kind of beat that only he knew privately, that replayed in his head over and over, never leaving him in his day to day life. He liked to think it was the music of his existence.

Even though he would have gladly remained here with her for the rest of his life, bodies intertwined, breaths quiet and faint, hearts synced together, his exhaustion was getting the better of him. Before he could do much besides heft a blanket partway up their bodies, he'd drifted off into unconsciousness.


	5. Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So she caged him, for the sake of her people. Millions of people. Surely the trade was worth it.

Emily was dimly aware that she was resting on something warm. She nuzzled in further, pulling the blanket over her again — no, not a blanket. An arm. She shifted her hips and found one of her legs hooked over someone else’s. Her eyes blinked a few times, dimly, squinting in the light from the windows. She was vaguely confused before her mind sluggishly pieced together the night before. How he’d been too far off for whatever magic he had, how she’d been so ruthlessly taken by the Void — her tears, his soft humming melody. They must’ve fallen asleep like that.

She hesitated, finding herself tucked under his arm. Surely the Right Thing to do in this moment would be to extricate herself. To go clean off the memories of the night before — not that she remembered much in specifics. Just an overwhelming wave of terror and helplessness. And then, somehow, relief. And now here she was.

She should get up.

But he was comfortable. And she trusted him.

Her hand on his chest traced the line of buttons down his shirt, barely touching, just giving her hands something to _do._ She stilled her movement. She had a sudden urge to kiss him. Not romantically, not really, just in thanks. A small affection. The way he’d kissed her on the head last night.

She looked to his hand slung around her shoulder, being treated as a blanket. She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers wove through with his, and she found herself bringing his hand to her lips. What would’ve been his Marked hand, now graced by the soft brush of a kiss. Her thanks.

Emily liked him like this — soft, warm, vulnerable. No fighting. No sharp shield of barbed words to stab at her in defense. Just his very warm - very human - body and hers, resting peacefully.

She let out a soft sigh, changing position once more, shifting onto her side. Her body rolled slightly against his hip as she hooked her leg higher. She stretched briefly, lean muscles flexing, bare knee rubbing against his clothed thigh, back arching, pressing the rest of her body into his for a fleeting moment.. Their still-interwoven fingers brushed the silk that bunched most of her nightgown at her waist. She tucked her elbow where she nestled into him, letting all the tension of her stretch go as she relaxed against him once more, face pressed into his chest as she breathed him in, sighing contentedly. She burrowed her nose under him, hiding her face from the sun, eager to grasp just a few more moments of sleep.

* * *

He'd woken when he felt her move, shifting and turning, taking his hand in hers. But he decided not to open his eyes, even when she buried herself against him, blanket tucked around their resting bodies. He was sure that soon they'd have to get up, Emily usually had breakfast with her father and he was assuming he would also have to follow that tradition now, or at least until the tether with the Void was broken. Whenever it decided to let her go, that was.

He also wanted to avoid anyone walking in on them. Servants, maids, public officials, _Corvo Attano_. Especially the latter. He cared not for rumors, whispers gone from ear to ear, half heard and half memorized. But he knew Emily had a reputation, and though her rule had been very unusual as it stood thus far, he knew that the Empire respected her despite it all, but he knew respect was hard earned, and easily lost.

When he felt her nuzzle against him a chuckle escaped him, genuine and emerging from his chest. It was breathy, only the softest sound escaping his lips. He was amused, though the way she tangled around him did stir something within him that went against propriety…

Then again, when had they ever properly gone about this? Their situation was complicated at best.

"Your father must be waiting for you... Emily..." He spoke quietly, reaching up to run the back of his hand against her cheek. He should have moved then. Should have untangled himself, gone back to the safe room to clean up and make himself look presentable. But she was so perfectly imperfect in the morning light. he couldn't look away, entranced by the silken gown, the sheets against them, the shadows that played on her figure. He would draw this later. This exact moment. He never wanted to let it go.

* * *

Feeling the rumble of his chest as he chuckled, Emily felt a warm tingle go through her, heating her cheeks as well, not entirely devoid of embarrassment. But his words were like water seeping up beneath her, gradually making her less and less comfortable, and she squeezed her eyes shut at his hand brushing her face.

It had been easy with him silent. To forget who they were — how they were. That thought sent a twinge of pain like a wire pierced through her chest. Her fingers, still wrapped with his, tightened at the feeling, wanting to hold this moment as it was. No chance to interpret, to theorize over what it meant, no way for either of them to imagine it to be something it wasn’t. To just accept it. No expectations. No regrets.

This wasn’t a romance, and she needed to remember that. She couldn’t give him false hope. She had to consider his feelings.

He cared too much. She could never compare. He’d spent years saving her life, and next to that she’d spent mere days in his company. She was still a young woman. She’d felt her fickle heart in the past; she couldn’t subject him to the same capricious nature that had taken soldiers and poets alike into her bed, only to leave when the winds shifted. She may have changed from the coup, but had she changed enough?

Gradually her heart distanced itself, closing up. She let out one final sigh as she rolled off of him, pulling her nightgown back over her knees and running a hand through her hair, looking around the room. “Right. He probably is.” She avoided Oliver’s gaze, unsure how best to respond, how to spare his feelings. Finally, after a moment of thought she gave up. Her expression was probably a bit more pathetic than she wanted, her defenses still building themselves for the day. “Thank you for staying.” Her words were sincere. “I’m sorry if I-” she stumbled over her words for a moment, eyes glancing away as she paused. “...I crossed a boundary last night. I’m sorry.”

Her walls were coming up, but not quite in time to hide the glimpse of a haunted look in her eyes. Somewhere, at the back of her mind, she wondered on the Void. It’s fluctuations were growing more extreme. It was gone entirely for hours at a time, but seemed to creep back vengefully only to strike even harder once the opportunity was available. If this was the expectation, would his... _aura_ hold? Would the Void grow stronger still, forcing her into his arms? She didn’t want that. If she sought solace in his embrace it should be with his same intentions, not a selfish plea for relief in a moment of distress.

She couldn’t look at him. Her face was steadily growing warmer as she shamed herself. Instead, she walked to her wardrobe, turning her head to address him as she went. “You’re welcome to come to breakfast if you’d like. But don’t feel obliged.” Her speech lacked her usual pristine diction, words coming out just slightly clearer than mumbling. “If you have things you need to do, please do them.” She traced fingers over garments absently, her mind anxiously wandering. “I’ll be fine until the evening.”  

* * *

He could read her like a book now. His eyes scanning her features for indicative signatures. He stood as well, a little bit wobbly, his head aching just slightly. His back was turned to her and for the shortest moment it seemed as though he were there again, on the obsidian platforms that crumbled where they were suspended in a vast nothing. He could even feel the weightlessness of eternity, the way a breeze brushed past his cheeks, the wailing staccato from up above, a chorus of miserable leviathans with glossy white eyes and flesh ripped, torn, and marked with numbers and shipping codes.

He could feel them suffering.

Then it came back, dust particles swimming through the air where the light beamed through the curtains and warmed the hardwood floor, newly polished, with little scuffs from his own shoes when he'd entered the night before. He did not entertain her this time. He could hear her words replaying in his mind and he felt almost as if he should thank her for letting him down easy, not stringing him along her power hungry line, hooking him, just to throw him back and bait him again.

The Void worked in mysterious ways, he understood that much. It perpetuated towards some kind of endgame, but each endgame was always also interconnected with yet another divine product of fate. What he'd learned, over all of the useless factoids, all of secrets buried away within the minds of generations, was that the Void never did things out of pure coincidence. It had compelled him towards _something_ , but now he was beginning to question that. Perhaps it was malevolent and he had just been too drained of every feasible emotion to notice. Suffering was just another synonym for existing.

"I see." His voice was all too knowing, and not smug, nor sarcastic. He _understood_. Which only hurt more. He didn't say anything else, walking into the safe room and shutting the door behind him, very tempted to slam it — not in anger, but in frustration. His feelings had gotten the better of him again. His chest was aching harder than the blaring pain in his temples.

* * *

Emily stilled as she listened to him go. She hated herself, hated what she was doing to him. It wasn’t right. But her selfishness - and that’s what it was, keeping him so close, selfishness - wasn’t just for her own comfort; she had an empire to rule. She couldn’t do that if she went mad. So she caged him, for the sake of her people. Millions of people. Surely the trade was worth it.

She was still uneasy as she changed for the day, absentmindedly pulling on trousers and blouse, picking an appropriate jacket. Looking herself over in the mirror, she tilted her head to the side, watching her hair waterfall over her shoulder, reminded of rhythmic strokes that lulled her to sleep. She decided to pull it back.

With careful hands she braided her hair the way Alexi used to — the way she’d shown Emily that day they’d spent in bed. The Fugue Feast that year had been record-setting for Emily. Even thinking of it brought heat to her cheeks and a sadness to her heart. Another price of the coup.

Once her hair was secured, safe from any combing or stroking or anything that might soften her resolve, Emily straightened, raising her chin. Empress face. The day was beginning, and she needed her walls around her again. Blinking all memories from her eyes, she turned on a polished boot heel and headed to breakfast.

* * *

His routine was anything but simple; Oliver was an incredibly meticulous person when it came to his looks. It was something of a comfort, knowing he had full control of his body now, not only being separated from the void but also Delilah, who had invaded his mind, taken his island in the void and used it to her disposal, essentially invading him as a person.

But now he had the freedom to choose what he wore, what his scents were, the way his hair moved and the way he presented himself, which was, frankly, darn dapper and not followed by the inky tendrils of oblivion. He was quick about it though, cleansing himself and pulling his clothing on. He stepped out into the hall before she did, unbeknownst to him. So when he made an appearance in the dining hall, he felt a little awkward, seating himself a good two seats away from Corvo, eying the food spread along the table.

He did not touch it though. He would wait for her, hands in his lap, eyes averted. "... Lord Protector," he greeted stiffly, unsure of how exactly to approach him now that he had the power to punch him in the neck.

* * *

Corvo, already chowing down on eggs and ham and toast, reviewing the daily newspapers, glanced up at the new arrival. “Morning,” he nodded, gruffly, returning to his meal. When Oliver made no move to eat, Corvo set down his reading material. “Eat,” he ordered, nudging a plate of sausages toward the kid. “Then I’ve got some work for you.” As always, the younger man looked sullen. He seemed to only have two moods: sullen and smug. And the Royal Protector hadn’t seen the latter in fifteen years. “...Shoulda called you the poutsider,” he muttered, returning to his reading.

* * *

Oliver felt the corners of his lips perk up faintly at that and his eyes averted. He still made no move to eat though. "... Clever. A tad bit unoriginal, but acceptable in any case." He glanced over and that signature smugness of his flashed over his features for just a moment. "However, I prefer to wait for Emily, out of courtesy. I am only a guest, after all," he explained. _A likely unwanted one at this point,_ he thought to himself before turning his gaze towards the window.

* * *

Emily faltered as she entered the dining hall. How was he already there? She raised her chin, continuing her walk forward, and took a seat directly across from her father, popping a loose grape in her mouth as she loaded her plate. “Morning, Father.”

Without looking up from his paper, he nodded. “Your Imperial Majesty.”

He was being unusually formal with his words, if not his body language, and Emily narrowed her eyes at him, spotting the slightest trace of a Corvo smile at the corners of his mouth. Almost imperceptible. Of course: it was a show for the Outsider — Oliver. She rolled her eyes. He was incorrigible.

As to her own attitudes toward the former god, she was avoiding looking at him at all, focusing on her breakfast. Her mind was suggesting ways she might attempt casual conversation, but she couldn’t seem to get her mouth to work right, so instead she occupied it with food.

* * *

Oliver immediately felt himself tense once she'd entered and couldn't help himself from briefly eying her up and down, admiring her outfit and the way it fit her. But he found himself in a state of confusion at Corvo's words, seeing as he had watched them have breakfast every day for the past fifteen years up until only a few months ago, it felt off. Was he... Was he poking fun at Oliver?

"What an odd display of formality, Lord Protector and Royal Spymaster Corvo Attano," he commented, holding back his own smile despite the tension in the air. The two of them together, Oliver and Emily, were like charged coils that only buzzed brighter and louder when put into such awful silence like this.

He began eating, poking at an egg with his fork. He was a slow eater naturally, so his movements now were almost excruciating.

* * *

Corvo smirked at the response. He was in unusually good spirits, having found his jibes at the kid particularly amusing, but as they ate in silence - one minute… three minutes… five minutes - he looked up. He frowned. Emily was unusually quiet. Generally she’d be asking what he was reading, getting a summary of the daily news, requesting information on whatever her current project was — even with her sleep problems lately, she’d still come to breakfast with strong intent. Her silence was troubling.

Watching his daughter, he studied her. And, of course, she was avoiding any sort of interaction with the kid. He narrowed his eyes, turning an accusatory gaze on Oliver, but saying nothing. Just watching. He’d promised to give the kid a chance. But Emily didn’t look happy. And she was pointedly _not-looking-happy_ at Oliver. His lips formed a grim line as he glanced between the two of them.

Well, he’d been so unwisely forthcoming the last time…

Corvo sat up straight and turned to the kid. “Spill,” he ordered. “Why the hostility?” He jerked his head in Emily’s direction, obviously meaning her hostility towards him and not the other way around.

Emily’s eyes shot up as well, glaring at her father.

* * *

Oliver nearly jumped at his voice, eyes widening just slightly. He took a deep breath to calm himself and this time he actually considered his words before they came toppling from his lips and all over the table. What a mess he'd make, if he weren't careful. His words, he'd learned, could be like daggers, or like a feather against the cheek. He did not fight, but his words were his weapons. And sometimes he unsheathed them at rather inconvenient times.

"I crossed the line." He stopped himself there. Wow. _What a way with words you have, darling Outsider_ , his consciousness chided him disapprovingly. "Rather, there was a line crossed and we've decided not to speak of said line for the sake of the arrangement," he explained carefully. 'And also our sanity,' he would have liked to add, but did not.

The words came out all wrong though. He wanted them one way but they approached in another. It felt odd, obtuse, perhaps lacking the natural free flow that they typically carried with them. He was obviously holding something back. Dancing around a specific piece of information, but he couldn't fade off into the Void, couldn't dodge the topic — he was a human in their presence. Just a boy, madly in love with the Empress.

He was glad at least, that Corvo didn't realize everything else. The way he'd gone several extra miles to save Emily. He was unsure of how the man would react to hearing that. He was one of the few people Oliver had trouble predicting.

* * *

Corvo’s eyes flashed at his initial statement, and sent a sharp glance to his daughter, who seemed more shocked than angry. He’d promised to trust Emily, that she could handle the kid on her own. The mere thought of Emily _handling_ Oliver made him wince and immediately scrub the thought from his mind. He had to trust her. He _did_ trust her.

….He just wanted to make sure she was making the right decisions.

It was hard for Corvo to hold his tongue, but he managed. If only for a moment. The kid was hiding something. “Go on.”

“Seven _bloody_ strictures, Father-” Emily’s face had gone red.

That wasn’t a good sign. “Would you rather explain, Emily?” He asked her, pointedly.

She scowled, her protests quelled even as she rested her head in her hands, shaking it exasperatedly. Well, at least that meant it wasn’t anything serious. If she’d really _needed_ him to shut up, she would’ve told him. Would’ve made him, either by word or by deed. Already, the fact that she let the kid continue was helping calm Corvo’s concerns.

Corvo looked back to the black-haired boy. “Well?”

* * *

Oliver took note of his gaze and the way his nose scrunched up in suspicion and he cringed, realizing that all of this sounded really, very very bad on his part. He gazed at Emily, eyes widening faintly, "No that-" He caught himself, maintaining his composure.

"I have not had _those_ sort of relations with Emily, which is what I realize that you likely assumed. Not that she isn't... stunning. But that isn't what my intent has ever been, I have not sought to defile your daughter, I am not the perverse tempter of the night that the Abbey-..." His words trailed off and he stared down at his breakfast. His expression flattened suddenly.

"... I must learn to keep my affections to myself from now on. I am in no right to court an empress, especially given the professionalism of our arrangement... and who I am. Again, I was out of line. It was my mistake. Sincerest apologies." He stood and set his fork on his plate neatly. "I've... letters to send. If you'll excuse me," he bowed his head reverently, turning towards the door.

He wondered if Corvo ever intercepted his letters. If either of them even knew what he got up to over the days. He never told them. Then again... they never asked.

* * *

Emily caught his first glance, then had to look away. She felt sure he was going to put his foot in his mouth, and when he didn’t - well, at least, not too much - she was surprised. Still, her ears glowed pink as he praised her, claimed his good intentions. As he went on, she found herself chewing on the still-raw patch on her lower lip, eyes slightly widened down to the table when he dropped such words as _affections_ and _court_. He’d put serious thought into this, she realized. Not just some dalliance, his words implied an actual _public_ relationship. She had the surreal image of the Outsider requesting a dance at a noble function, and wondered briefly if he would be a good dancer before pushing the thought from her mind, feeling guilty that it had even occurred to her. So frivolous.

If anything, this was proof the she was doing the right thing to step away. He was right: they had to keep things professional. It was bad enough, their misunderstandings, without the added complications of a romantic relationship. She just wished there was some way to calm his... his _feelings_ for her. She wished he could be just another bodyguard. That they could have a cordial relationship without her heart breaking. No, without _his_ heart breaking — what was she thinking? Selfish, to want anything from him. Impulsive. Reckless. She needed to think of the future.

* * *

 

* * *

Billie had snooped again, casing his safe room suite as he sat at the workbench, quill moving hastily along paper. She asked him questions, prodded around his personal life, looked through the sketches on the end table next to the little armchair at the foot of the stairs. He didn't mind it. She wasn't intentionally trying to offend him; she was concerned. And, in all honesty, it was nice to have someone to care about him, especially in times like these.

He sent his letters off to be mailed around noon, had lunch with Billie, and conversed about the latest happenings with her. She'd been making her way around the city, skulking through the dark alleys of Dunwall and getting back in touch with a few previous connections she'd had. She'd even met an old whaler, Thomas, and had a drink with him the night before. He was glad that someone's night had been productive and not vaguely confusing. They laughed, bickered, bantered. But Billie knew something was off -- the glimmer in his eyes was dimmer now, and his eyes were his biggest enemies.

They were intense - held a sense of purpose - but when he was hopeless they darkened to a deep seafoam. When he was exhilarated they near glowed. At his resting state they were a pale emerald. She kept her mouth shut. If he wanted to open up about it, he would. And he usually did, eventually.

Midday, he returned to his quarters, sighing wistfully to himself as he collapsed onto the bed — which had been switched out for something more suited for a possibly permanent guest. The sheets were a deep purple, pillows filled with feathers, blankets thick for the colder Dunwall nights. He sat propped up against the wall in the corner and his eyes flickered up at the little drawings Emily had made when she was just a child.

He'd visited her, once or twice. Back then he tried not to make much contact with her. He knew the effect the Void had on childish minds, and he didn't want to corrupt. Of course, many people visited the Void in their dreams — idly traversing platforms, half asleep even in unconsciousness. Emily was no exception. Only she was very discomfited by the nature of the vast plain, so much so that she stirred herself awake whenever she'd visited.

He turned to his drawing pad, sketching out the morning scene as he so vividly remembered it: bodies tangled together, her form in the blankets, her hair falling in waves. _Her._

* * *

Corvo had recognized that look on Emily’s face at breakfast: it reminded him of Jessamine. She’d had that same worried expression when he’d asked to court her when they were younger.

And that concerned him.

He was left conflicted; Oliver reminded him so strongly of himself as a young man — pining after a soon-to-be empress he was tasked with protecting. Years of looking after her, responsibility turning to respect, affection, eventually seeing her at eighteen and realizing with a pang that he was helplessly in love. If that was how Oliver felt… Corvo had to sympathize, to some extent. Jessamine has been hesitant, worried what her father would think, what society would think of her involvement with a Serkonan orphan with hands a hundred times more calloused than most nobles. He’d respected her concerns, serving day after day with his heart slowly breaking, with her the only light in a world of adolescent lovesick gloom.

So, with the boy’s feelings _painfully_ clear, he felt for the kid. He’d earned Corvo’s respect.

But at the same time, this was his daughter. This was Emily, and as much as she reminded him of her mother she wasn’t Jessamine. Truth be told, she was a better empress than Jessamine. She put her people first, and that seemed to be what she was doing now. She cared about making things right, and Dunwall was still recovering from Delilah’s brief but devastating rule, not to mention the whale oil crisis, and the sickness that seemed to burn through and strike down people every other week. If he could lift even a fraction of her burden, he would. And he did all he could. As Spymaster he controlled a web of informants and knowledge that spread throughout the Empire — he had some of the greatest minds available to him, and he tasked them with problems no ordinary citizen could even attempt. But Emily still dealt with the pressure, the backlash her action or lack of action caused among whichever class happened to be suffering. She took the public’s criticism to heart, particularly wary after the coup, feeling as though she’d been blindsided.

Looking over the intercepted letters, Corvo ran a tired hand down his haggard face with a heavy sigh. It was hard not to appreciate the kid. _‘Kid’_ — the man was thousands of years old, knew so much — as evidence by these letters. He was using his knowledge to help the Empire, and for that Corvo knew Emily would be grateful. _He_ was grateful. He needed to talk to the former god of the Void. Needed to question him about the crisis, the deaths.

...This would have been so much easier two days ago.

Lips twisted into a grim line as Corvo stood from his desk. He was torn between advising the man to be patient, let her come around in time, and telling him to cut his feelings away at the root - kill them off - to keep Emily’s heart safe. So instead he wouldn’t talk about it at all. Focus on business. A servant of the Empire. He gathered up the files he needed, slipping the intercepted letters away to be resealed and sent, and made his way to the safe room.

* * *

The pencil moved over the paper smoothly, effortlessly. He had spent a lot of time in the Void perfecting a lot of different skills, mostly out of sheer boredom. The first centuries were pure terror, but numbed to the endless abyss, he found himself wandering with nothing to do, no one to speak to regularly. There was a hollow part of him that conflicted with the humanity still inside. Regardless of how hopeless the situation was, he would still seek out a passion, a purpose for _living_.

He outlined her lips, hidden mostly by the shadow of his chest and her untamed hair, but he stopped and set the drawing to the side on the bed when he heard the knocking on the door. Surely it wasn't Emily. She typically just walked in.

He made his way up the steps quickly, and with notable silence, pressing into the button with his own ring and twisting, eyes widening faintly at Corvo. "... Am I being tested, or reprimanded?" he questioned.

* * *

Corvo grimaced. “This isn’t about the Empress.” He pressed into the room, pausing at the banister. “I’ve actually come looking for counsel.” Jogging down the stairs, he dropped the stack of files on the workbench, drawing a page out. “Twelve dead in the last few months, all sudden, six of them members of the Academy of Natural Philosophy.” Three of those had been in contact with Empire intelligence, working on the whale oil issue. Another two of the sudden deaths had also been useful contacts in the Spymaster’s web — inventors. “No signs of foul play, unless it was magic.”

* * *

Oliver stepped back a bit and nodded, turning and making his way down the stairs. He hoped it wasn't too much of a mess; he wasn't exactly expecting company. He'd clearly been working on things, from the sketch on his bed to the mechanical gizmos along the workbench.

He eyed the stack of files and, without asking, flipped through their pages, making thoughtful "hms" and such here and there as he surveyed, skimming through sections that intrigued him. He figured Corvo would be patient with him. He was a patient man, after all.

"...The whale oil problem should be the least of your worries." He glanced back at Corvo, suddenly displaying _that_ expression, the one encased in stone deep within the vestiges of the inner Void. The ancient bits where no living thing dare to dwell, where water met shadow and melted together into eternity.

"There are simple solutions to those petty issues. It's not difficult to power an empire, its only setback is the reliance on whale oil — but as we can see from Karnaca, it isn't difficult to break the pattern. ...I have... these exact plans being set into motion..." He stopped, slowly tilting his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "It's only expected, the Royal Spymaster would intercept letters from every guest... Regardless; the Void lives. It breathes, and seeks, and now it _hungers_ for representation. There is no one within the Void to mediate the power, to control it just as much as it controls said individual. There were many people with the potential the Void sought after, none of whom I actively visited. Some called for an audience. Others were interested in... different devotions." He was as vague and cryptic as always, running his fingers along a small device.

He'd been working on non-lethal weapons for the guards in his spare time. One of them was a small gun looking mechanism, with a trigger but no clip. It released metal prongs that were attached via wire to the mechanism itself, pressing several hundred volts of electricity through the person it clung to, rather than several brass and lead bullets. He still needed to work on the range though. It wasn't a finished project. He had access to so very many memories, blueprints stretching through his mind. He could hardly keep his hands at rest, in fact.

"Noblemen held gatherings underground where they would undress and bathe themselves in ritual oils, committing cruel acts of indecency in a vain and shallow attempt to get into contact with a being they'd only heard of in vague, unrealistic myths that romanticized a prisoner to a malevolence that threatened to swallow up every light in the sky, one by one, until each and every one of the world's citizens were bathed in eternal darkness." He took a deep breath, his voice becoming bitter at the thought.

"But natural philosophers, while still acting upon ill intent and perversions, understood a fundamental truth of existence — natural philosophy. They tried to evoke me by more educated means. They studied my runes, fingers etching over the curvatures, starving for knowledge of otherworldly origin. Many were being driven mad by it, consumed to the point of insanity. The truth hung on the tip of their tongues, so they salivated at the thought of _learning_ , but they stared through the Void into the abyss, and didn't realize that the abyss would stare right back at them. Those that died had dug themselves their own graves, too deep into the Void, some of them even had my mark engraved into their skin, desperate for my audience." He finally turned to Corvo, leaning against the bench, going quiet once he'd realized he'd gone on a bit of a tangent.

* * *

Corvo watched Oliver silently, then glanced over the rest of the workbench while the younger man skimmed the files. The Royal Spymaster was intrigued. The mechanisms displayed in various states of construction reminded him of that artifact that had once been Jessamine’s heart. He wondered if it would be safe to pick up any of these particular instruments, if they might speak to him as well. He stiffened at that thought, and immediately reprimanded himself. Superstitious nonsense is what that was.

His eyes were drawn to Oliver as he spoke, analyzing and memorizing each word as it was spoken. He hadn’t given the kid enough credit. How had he misjudged so badly? This man was (though Corvo wasn’t exactly happy to admit it) a gift. He’d expected the god to have lost something in transition, but that didn’t seem to be the case. An intelligent, critical, mechanical mind…

He didn’t look away at the suspicious look he got for knowing the content of the letters. He could deny or argue that he’d only read the two most recent, but why bother? It was his job to know the information passing into and out of the tower. He’d been lax in regard to some of those duties until today.

As Oliver moved on to talk about the Void, Corvo felt a nervous hum on his skin. The Void hungered… _For Emily?_ But he couldn’t ask. He’d found an invaluable ally, and he wouldn’t start burning bridges before he’d even reached them — let alone crossed them. So instead he listened, mildly disturbed, watching the man’s hands while simultaneously cross-referencing this new information with what he knew of the various victims.

Had any been found with the Outsider’s symbol? Most bodies had been irreparably damaged. Burnt up or wasted away — one charred so badly they’d just assumed the identity given its location. There had been other destroyed evidence, though. Disfigured or destroyed items near the bodies. Once, a whole chalkboard that had cracked into useless rubble. Ambitious men and women. ...All quite passionate about their fields of study…

“So, what?” he mused, practically to himself. “They’re managing to… _channel_ the Void somehow? Or is it just seeking out those who might make contact with it?” _Should I be worried for other agents?_ He stopped himself from focusing his questions on that topic. Oliver had given him a lot to think about in a very short amount of time. He turned his eyes back to the younger man. “I’m going to need as much information about this as you can manage, written. Or typed. However you need to do it, but it needs to be thorough. We’ll make resources available to the engineers in Karnaca, try to help move the alternative energy projects forward, get working prototypes in place, maybe organize a team to adapt the concepts in a way that works better for Dunwall’s topography — and the rest of Gristol, of course.”

Looking back to the items on the table, his hand hovered over one of them, not quite touching it. “These… are these functional? What do they do?”

* * *

Oliver didn't turn to look at him, gazing down at the object. "... A measure to decrease brutality against citizens. Or at least, the intensity of the brutality. Strangely enough, it seems that there is a way to enforce the law without losing every semblance of your humanity." His voice was smug again as he took it in his hand and fingered the trigger, holding it up and shooting into the mannequin near the barred off section of the safe room, where the bars of silver and gold lined the walls. Two pronged wires escaped the device, jumping at a considerable speed and latching onto the pliable fabric. The two pieces of metal buzzed and popped against the material.

"-Until better education can be established for the guardsmen, they won’t ever treat anyone with civil respect, as they aren't aware of what exactly that is. Consider an education reform for the City Watch." He finally turned his gaze up to Corvo, letting go of the trigger and pressing the red button on the side. The two wires tugged free of the mannequin and sloppily retreated into the holds and he set it back down. He looked a little awkward, holding a weapon like that. That was only one of the machinations spread along the workbench though. He'd been busy.

"... Expect the reports by noon tomorrow." He approached the corner bed and pushed the drawing pad to the side, shifting around in search of his notes. He enjoyed this brief professionalism. He wasn't worried about Corvo clocking him over the head with the back of his crossbow, or punching him in the neck for some silly misunderstanding.

He liked to think he was getting a better grasp of how he used his words, without the Void's help. It was difficult though; sometimes he'd freeze in the middle of a letter, a word swimming in his mind that wasn't quite complete, a sentence fragmented. Things did not come as naturally as they had before.

Other times he'd be doing something as mundane as drawing, or washing his hands, and suddenly he'd find that his whole body was under direct siege by memories too far gone to approach him vividly. Usually they were in kaleidoscope slivers, dotting back and forth, as though teasing him with just how unintelligible they could be: colors and sounds, scents, tastes. Sometimes they'd be pleasant, other times they'd leave him standing there with wide eyes, mouth agape, hands trembling as though he were there again, witnessing the horrors of mankind in his little corner of the Void.

He found that most of his memories - the ones he could puzzle together - were not pleasant. They'd been tumbling back towards him rapidly ever since his arrival. Some threatened to crush him completely, others leisurely passed him by as if taking an afternoon stroll.

* * *

Corvo watched the demonstration, biting his tongue about the brutality comments. Truthfully, he’d thought similar things in the past, but other things always seemed to take precedence over something as regimented as city-wide training seminars for guards. It wasn’t as though they could just dismiss every guard with violent tendencies - they’d be left with barely any men at all - but a more focused training effort would take time and money they didn’t necessarily have on hand. But in the meantime he admired the device, certainly — a more ammunition-efficient version of the Karnacan voltaic gun.

He nodded in satisfaction with the promise of reports soon to follow, already making mental notes of who would need to be given which pieces of information, which generals to trust with which topics, who to assign for certain specific challenges. His eyes lingered on the other objects, wondering how well the former god might work with a partner, if he’d even be willing to go see Vexton to work on replicating or fine-tuning some of these designs. Glancing up again, he turned to follow Oliver, a few steps behind.

Corvo didn’t quite _stumble_ upon seeing the drawing, but he certainly halted. He looked away, as if to maintain some modesty (whose, he wasn’t sure), a small part of him annoyed. Here they’d been doing so well avoiding mentioning Emily and then there he was drawing her, pining after her — but it was none of his business. In theory he felt for the kid, but as soon as he contextualized that this was his daughter he couldn’t help that protective urge to test and pass judgment on everyone who made a play for her heart; no one could ever love her as much as she deserved to be loved, no one would ever be worthy of her love in return. The brief glimpse of the image was already burned into his mind, and he took small comfort in the clothed state of both drawn bodies.

He squeezed his temples quick with one hand, dragging it down his tired face. “Right, well…” He felt unbearably stilted, his voice a gruff mumble. “...You’re… comfortable?” he asked, awkwardly, pointedly looking anywhere besides the picture.

* * *

Oliver hadn't noticed at first, his head racing, mind whirling with new thoughts, how he might structure what he knew of the Void, how he might reduce it down to something a bit more comprehensible, seeing as the Void was many things at once while being practically nothing at all. He didn't quite process Corvo's words, eyes distantly playing on the candle flickering on the nightstand as he thought. Something boiled within him, simmering there — uncomfortable, waiting.

He glanced at the drawing and immediately snatched it up, flipping through pages and clearing his throat. He wasn't great at being subtle and he was even worse when it came to compensating. "...As comfortable as I can be, locked in the royal safe room under near constant surveillance. I suppose it's only slightly better than drifting through a vast nothing with all of my senses dulled completely." He yawned, though suddenly stopped himself, not turning to Corvo.

"...The nameless ship that ported on the day of the coup... It was called _The Dreadful Whale_. ...It was captained by a Meagan Foster, and it caught fire once it had served its purpose, and now lays waste on the Serkonan sea floor..." He let the information sit, eyes slowly closing. Corvo was the spymaster, but before he was the spymaster, before he was father to Emily Kaldwin, he was lover to Jessamine. Oliver knew it was a sore spot. He knew it still lingered on the bad nights when an entire bottle of scotch would go missing from the tower kitchens and the figure of a man could be made out along the rooftops of the shipping yard, curled in on himself in the few spare moments of time he had to waste.

He could see it in the way that Corvo walked, tense with the weight of the memories - the what ifs and could have beens settled on them - and he had to balance them there. Those were the broad shoulders of a man who was riddled with regret and sorrow, hardened with experience. Corvo Attano was one of the few people Oliver genuinely respected. He knew he wouldn't have to spell it out for him. Daud was dead. He thought Corvo should know that much, at least.

* * *

Corvo wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to Oliver’s sudden - and off-puttingly casual - admission of his experience in the Void. So he didn’t. Instead he ran a restless thumb over the hilt of the folding blade at his waist. The younger man’s next words took him by surprise.

He’d wondered, after sparing Daud’s life, if the man had ever redeemed himself. At his darkest moments he still cursed the assassin’s name, with a mix of anger and guilt. He seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth in the time between his fight with Corvo and when Corvo took up the position of Royal Spymaster. To realize he was gone now… It was odd. He’d expected to feel relief. But instead there was just a profound pity for the man. He wondered if he should bring it up with Billie, ask what happened, but she wasn’t exactly one to get into personal business. Maybe it was best to leave the man at peace.

“I-” His voice was hoarse, and he shut his mouth quickly. He cleared his throat. No words came. Instead, he nodded.

* * *

Oliver closed the drawing pad, lowering his hands to his side. He knew how complicated relationships could get, and he knew Corvo and Daud had a relationship that was built on soured grounds. Composed of reverence and respect.

"Corvo... The Dreadful Whale _served its purpose_ ," he repeated once more, firmly this time, hoping that he would understand. He turned but did not look to him, walking back to his workbench to search for the proper writing utensils. If he didn't begin now he knew he probably wouldn't finish by the time he got to bed. And he didn't intend on staying up for too long, if he could help it.


	6. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he couldn't have her, at least he could have the thought of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hello and welcome to the smut chapter. If you're not a fan of smut, feel free to skip as soon as things get uncomfortable, plot will resume next chapter. There is character development, though. So... enjoy.]

Emily stared at the door to the safe room, spinning the signet ring on her finger, a determined scowl on her face. She’d been blindsided by her father’s suggestion over dinner.

\-----

He’d been giving her questioning looks as she ate, her eyes half focused and distracted. “...You know…”

She blinked a couple times, coming out of a reverie she was already having a hard time remembering. “Hm?”

He looked away and ran careful fingers over his fork, twirling it in the remains of food on his plate. "...It would probably be good to know the range on that... aura thing,” he grimaced.

Her eyebrows had shot up at that, surprised to find him suggesting she have anything to do with the Outsider - Oliver - after everything that had happened the past two days. She stared at him silently.

“You don’t have to do it right away. You may even want to bring in Hypatia, if you’re alright with her knowing. I don’t know if it’s something she could quantify for you…” He shrugged, lips still thin, looking regretfully assured. When she didn’t speak, he shot her a sidelong look, making sure she was listening. After a moment of silence, his words were a bit softer, less business-like. “...You can’t just avoid him, Emily. This thing that’s troubling you… You were right that you need him near you.”

She felt herself glaring. He was supposed to be the one who told her what she didn’t want to hear, but not _this_ way. He was supposed to be telling her to stay away from the former god. Not pushing her toward him.

“If you want to figure out just how far is safe enough, you’ll need to make a study of it. As formally as you’d like,” he added, as though that might pacify her, watching her reactions carefully.

What was he doing? It was as though he _wanted_ her dependent.

Even as she thought that, she knew it wasn’t true. The rueful expression on her father’s face made it clear he wasn’t thrilled to be bringing the issue up at all, and she felt a twinge of guilt that she’d given the idea even a moment’s attention. He’d been teaching her to be self-sufficient all her life. If he encouraged her now it was to help her set her own limits, to _keep her_ from being dependent, rather than suggest it.

“You know I have a lot of work to do - what with the Academy deaths and all, not to mention today’s revelations - but if you want me to come help, you know I could work something out.”

She was already waving her hand, dismissively, glancing away and hiding her own concern. “No, no… it’s fine.” She wasn’t entirely sure it was, but the more she considered it the more she could trick herself into believing it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to bring anyone else in on this supernatural little secret. As far as she knew, the only ones aware of this weakness of hers were the three of them. It was said that three could keep a secret if two of them were dead. While she didn’t plan on killing any of her secret-keepers, expanding that circle only added risk.

Which left her only one option.

\-----

She wondered if he could feel her glare from wherever he was on the other side of the door. If he could tell how anxious she was. He had that odd instinct, and it was often unsettling.

She’d waited until late in the day, letting the Void creep ever closer, the ringing persistent, before she’d even come back to her room. It had lessened a bit, so she knew he was there. She’d stalled further, stripping off her formal jacket and removing her boots, re-reading notes she’d taken during the day, even taking the time to brush her hair from its braid and pull it back again. Then she’d sat on the edge of her newly-relocated bed, staring at the bookcase.

Finally, after reassuring herself that it would be fine, that she could keep things platonic - professional, even - she clenched her fists and stood. Strength. Resolve. Courage. She was the Empress of the Isles and she was taking her safety into her own hands. Rolling her shoulders back and standing tall, she forced her hands to relax and walked to the secret door.

She knocked on the frame, firmly but not loudly. “Oliver?”

* * *

It was hard to work when there was a choking tension shooting daggers towards him from the other side of the wall. The connection grew stronger when she was closest to him and sometimes he wondered if he could hear her voice in his head, but he chalked it up to the fact that her voice was this musical thing that he really hadn't been able to get out of his head beforehand anyways.

His pen moved along the paper in fluid motions, mechanically shifting from one line to the next as he carved his knowledge onto fresh parchment, a smell wafting from the ink as it escaped his quill that reminded him of the wall to wall books and archaic tomes that lined the ancient libraries of the Void.

As the night dragged on and he slipped his careful fingers over the stack of extra paper, he couldn't stop himself from pondering about the night before, her thighs locking around his waist, softer than the surface that he wrote upon - warmer too - like a pulsing furnace burning into him. It had gotten to the point where he'd become incapable of escaping those searing thoughts, the scent of her perfume assaulting him where he sat as though she were there brushing her lips against his neck, whispering his name, his _real_ name. What he wouldn't give to taste his name as it rolled off of her tongue.

He would have to stop, he would need to breathe, to remind himself that he'd been given a task. And also to remind himself that if he didn't complete the task he would have to come up with some excuse for not finishing it because he had a feeling that, ' _I was distracted by the thought of pleasuring your daughter into a delirious stupor'_  would earn him a little more than just a punch to the throat.

It became a vicious cycle of standing, running his hands over his face and through his hair, taking a deep breath, sometimes several, and then sitting down again. But each time he'd get back to work it would be worse. So finally, after a few hours, he gave in. ...He indulged temptation. The night was his own, he wasn't in danger. And if he couldn't have her, at least he could have the thought of her.

He had his thoughts, his words that painted pleasant pictures of her skin, the colors of silken nightgowns that danced over the curvatures of her figure, the way her hips brushed against the fabric, shadows playing on her body. ...When she was that close he could see the rise of her chest even in the dim light they'd been in. The subtle bumps protruding through, begging to be given attention. He swallowed hard, a sweat pricking at his brow.

Near perfect photographic memory was both a blessing and a curse.

Her hair fell in wisps as if the Void itself were curling along the line of her jaw and caressing her collarbones, concealing the lovely length of her neck and all of those sacred areas of hers he so desperately desired to nip at with his teeth. He imagined her beside him, open to his touch but her brows furrowed, demanding, perhaps challenging, he could never really tell. A breath escaped him. "Emily..." he whispered. He wanted to play with her, gently draw little noises from her lips that no one ever had before, and-

He near jolted out of his seat, slinging his pen so hard across the room that its pointed tip dug into the wall before slamming against the floor and rolling away. He rushed to stand up, flustered, cheeks the faintest pink. He hoped the slight tan he'd gotten on the way to Dunwall would do well to hide it. But it didn't matter. He ascended the steps, clearing his throat as the door opened. What a wonder, Sokolov's machinery, so very convenient. He could hide his trembling hands behind him, clasped together, fingers tugging at the silver rings nervously. "Kaldwin. Emily... Kaldwin." His speech was jumbled.

* * *

As the door to the safe room opened Emily felt as though a softly charged breeze rolled over her, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. It felt different. It smelled different, too, though she couldn’t quite place the scent. Not what the safe room used to smell like, in any case. It reminded her of when she and Wyman would sneak away to the safe room for secret trysts in the dead of night, the year before the coup. How odd that a couple months had changed her so much, that even thinking on her former lover no longer made her heart react at all. Then again, perhaps it was a bit distracted.

She blinked in surprise at the man before her. He looked... Well, he was flustered. His words proved that well enough. She didn’t usually see him flustered. Pink dusted his cheeks and she found her own face warming almost in response, as though it felt the need to mirror his. Her throat felt tight and she wondered if this was a horrible mistake, but she quickly averted her eyes from his, the shift of her head dismissing the thought to replace it with her usual self-assuredness as she briefly glanced over the workbench below.

“I was hoping we could-” she faltered very briefly as her eyes returned to his, but she charged valiantly on, “-work on determining the radius - the range, rather - of our, ah… connection.” By the Void, she sounded just as flustered as he did. She pulled herself to her full height, chin up, taking her royal posture again. “That is to say, I think this Void issue could benefit from some scientific study.” There, that was better. Formality had returned, even though she still felt the warmth in her face.

What _was_ that feeling? It was distracting. It reminded her of the hum of the Void, but not its recent advances. No. It reminded her of the hum off his skin the night they’d kissed. Something warmer, and magnetic, perhaps even heady. She looked away again, eyes furrowing very briefly in curious confusion as she tried to qualify the sensation, eyelids fluttering as though she might blink a hazy film from her eyes.

* * *

Oliver could practically taste the tension in the air and the way it lingered between them, an elephant in the room, or perhaps a safari now that he thought about it. There were words left unspoken, actions left undone; he was aching. Every fiber of his being wanted to pull her forward just to have her close to him, to feel the warmth radiating off of her skin, to slip her hair from the tie and watch it bounce before going still against her back.

He stood there instead, staring at her, not quite processing her words even moments after she'd said them. Finally he moved, tensing and nodding. "Reasonable consideration," he replied briefly. Which was abnormal, seeing as he typically didn't do _brief_.

He turned on his heel and stepped down the stairs, a mess of machinations littering the workbench alongside his sketchbook and the stack of papers he'd written for Corvo. The rather _unfinished_ task he'd been given.

"How do you propose we go about doing that?" he asked, fumbling through pencils and pens, his back directed to Emily. The last thing he needed to see right now in _his_ state was her face, her delicate brows and the scrunch of her nose, the way sincerity leaked through her tough, rock solid facade...

He pulled a clean paper from the stack, beginning to write. He knew Hypatia would be interested in getting notes on the topic, that she hated being bothersome. She had so very many questions -- he'd have to ask Corvo to send the report her way. When he finished it, that was…

* * *

Emily hadn’t noticed how hard it had been to breathe until he’d left her side and she inhaled deeply once more. Again that heady scent washed over her, and she wanted to shake her head, to free herself of this spell the room seemed to put on her - that _he_ seemed to put on her, any time they were trapped in enclosed spaces - but she kept her cool. She had to focus. She closed the door and followed him inside, slowing as he continued down to the workbench.

“Well.” She cleared her throat, swallowed, tried to keep her voice even. “Ideally we’d be able to do this in a wider open space, but I really don’t want anyone raising any questions -- to be honest,” she met his eyes, her gaze pointed, “I’d really prefer if _no one else_ knew about this. Just us. And Corvo.” Fuck, _Corvo_. She looked away, hands dragging along the railing at the top of the stairs. What was she thinking? He’d trusted her to do this, to be professional. _He trusted me to figure it out; he didn’t say to do it alone -- that was all me._ Damn it. “I just don’t want this weakness to be-” She cut herself off, eyes flicking to him briefly, then away, as she stopped herself. “I’d just prefer no one knew.”

She hated weakness. Hated it. And maybe that was a weakness in itself. At the very least, she didn’t publicize it.

She ran her hand over the rounded edges of the finial at the top of the stairs, rimming it absently with a single silk-covered fingertip, gaze focused firmly on _not him_. “So it may work better just using the hall, and the safe room itself. Maybe knotted string for distance. I’ve already noticed certain differences between - close contact, and - less direct.” The sentiment was perhaps a bit halting, but clear. Truth be told, she was curious about that difference. Because it had been severe, when she’d been touching him, how she’d felt almost bathed in light.

“I don’t know how far we might be able to go apart -- maybe start out and work in? Start in and work out?” She finally raised her gaze to him again.

* * *

Oliver noticeably winced at the word _weakness_ , his eyes flickering away. He lingered there for several moments, hand still holding pen over paper but not writing, only thinking, processing her words. Weakness. He was her weakness, and not in the good way. He would tie her down. He wasn't as fast as her, nor as quiet or lithe. He couldn't wrap himself around the shadows, embrace them as though he were one with them. Not anymore. He couldn't keep up with her if he tried. And now she had to go out with an unclear mind whenever the time called for it.

Because of him, and his own weakness: her.

"...The safe room is adequate." He pulled a spool of yarn out of one of the cubby holes and gazed at her. "...I'll pull the roll of yarn back towards the balconies, you hold the spool, and stop it from spinning once you've feel I've gone too far," he explained, his voice even, but he did not look at her. He was glad his trousers weren't form fitting tonight.

"...Shall we start in your bedroom?" he asked. He figured he'd just walk through where he'd been spending most of his time, going from the bed and backwards. He needed to know his limits. He wasn't sure he'd be able to control himself if she had another one of those episodes.

* * *

Images of their last interaction in her bedroom flooded her mind, a mix of emotions also flickering through her. Her cheeks were pink. “Um… I would request that we start in here instead.” Her voice was quieter than it had been. As much as the heavy air in the safe room clouded her mind, she didn’t dare imagine if that same thick atmosphere were to leak into her bedroom. No, that seemed a recipe for disaster. Perhaps this whole exercise was. She really wasn’t sure anymore.

She felt so odd in his presence. Attuned to something else that seemed to alter her resolve, leak images into her brain and urges into her limbs. It was as though they resonated on the same frequency, and if he changed she did too. It was horribly distracting.

She looked down to her hands again. Trying to distract herself, she pulled her gloves off of warm fingers -- the one place she was able to do so without the risk of being labeled a heretic. His Mark on her was fading away, a shadow of what it once was, but still distinct, still recognizable, and still very much blasphemous.

* * *

He opened his mouth to reply to her, finally turning to meet her gaze when he noticed she'd taken her gloves off. His eyes ghosted over the marking on her hand, the slender fingers, polished and heavily manicured. They were the hands of an empress, the ones that nobles kissed -- the ones he wouldn't mind kissing, either.

Thinking was difficult. His judgment was clouded, his head fogging up. She was mystifying in all of the right ways, and before he'd even realized it, he'd stepped forward and carefully taken her hand, fully prepared for her to snatch it back, to reprimand him.

He brushed his thumb over it, the warmth of his palm heating her skin even more. That was his name, fading from her skin. But it was still there. It was still his: him on her. His expression was surprisingly calm, but his gaze was intense. "...Lir," he spoke after a few moments. "...That is my name. That is the name I was given at birth, the name etched into your skin, seared into your being all those months ago. ...How long has it been since you woke to see the charcoal platforms of the Void? Breathed in its stale air, the scent of stone attacking your senses -- do you remember how it felt? When I approached you, propositioned you." His voice was hardly above a whisper.

He remembered. He remembered perhaps a bit differently now that he was human. He recalled her hair in disarray, sticking up in some places after only waking moments before, the uncertain quiver to her lips, apprehensive in step, two dark almonds glaring defiant little daggers into his apparition.

* * *

She wanted to pull her hand back when he took it - truly she did, her muscles tensed for it and all - but his touch was just…

It was as it had been the night before, but without the need to chase away the screams of the Void. Just… light. And warmth. It took her breath away, and she swallowed a whimper. She didn’t want this. Why did it have to be this way? She wanted so badly to resist this, to say no, she wanted it to not feel as good - as natural - as _instinctual_ as it did. She squeezed her eyes shut, almost pained -- but of course, it wasn’t pain. It felt good. Just… too good.

Her head fell forward, turning away even as she felt herself pulled toward him, his words and his touch and his scent all overwhelming her while she kept her eyes closed. His name… His Mark. Etched into her skin? No… Branded on her soul. Scarred into her heart. It faded on her hand but still remained elsewhere, claiming her.

Of course she remembered how it felt. The Void was hard to forget, and the Outsider even more so. But when he mentioned propositioning her? That brought back an entirely different memory. His hands in her hair, on her neck, his mouth on hers-

She was short of breath as her forehead pressed against his shoulder. She hadn’t even noticed the gradual movement toward him, but it had happened. His gravitational pull on her, irresistible. Still, it dragged her closer, and she fought to keep her feet planted, keep that gap between their bodies. She swallowed hard, not daring to speak, her hand trembling in his. Weak. She was weak. Fuck him if she wanted, sure. But to have this thing? This feeling? She wanted more than just his body, and that wanting made her weak. She’d known it, too. She’d predicted it just days ago. Her downfall wasn’t in him hurting her. Not pain. Pleasure. Pleasure she had to resist, had to stop. She couldn’t let it happen.

Yet she did nothing. Said nothing.

* * *

He was nearly too concentrated on the Mark to notice her shattering facade. His thumb drifted along the curves and circles and something within him was deeply saddened that it was not in its former, more polished glory. When her face hit his shoulder he gasped sharply but did not move to stop her, his cheeks still reddened, intoxicated by her presence.

He didn't speak, either, and came to the conclusion that words would do no justice. They wouldn't help him now in this state of uncertainty, unfamiliarity. It was exhilarating, it was absolutely terrifying. Part of him felt as though he should be uncomfortable with the physical contact -- but it was small, and all of the other parts - most of them being very human in faculty - overwhelmed that little bit of reason. He could have resisted the touch of any other person in all of the world, but not Emily Kaldwin. Not his Emily. Not when she was close enough that he felt her breath trickling over him.

He lowered his thumb and turned her hand in his palm, feeling her pulse. Her heart was thrumming wildly in her chest, and he took pride in the fact that he was the cause of it. Hopefully. His hands were trembling, too.

He parted his lips, licking them before biting down on the lower, holding himself back. When his voice came out, it was low, it was gentle -- almost intimately so.

"You're trembling Emily," he whispered. "Even in the face of the Void, with leviathans and a figure of myth peering down at you... you stood poised at the ready. But now here... in the royal safe room of all places, you're shaking like a frightened pup. Now... I haven't scared you off, have I?" The corner of his lips upturned bittersweetly and he let his eyes meet her figure against him.

He broke.

He reached forward with his unoccupied hand, took the first step, the liberty of putting his hand on her waist, pulling her just the slightest bit closer.

* * *

She couldn’t stop it. Her body moved on its own, and with just the slightest provocation she found herself closing the space between them even further, fingers twitching as her unmarked hand balled into a fist at her side. Her head raised slightly as she moved, and she turned her face toward where he held her hand, keeping her eyes closed, as if in not seeing it it wasn’t real. Her cheek rested against his shoulder, eyelashes brushing the side of his neck. Her shaky breath breezed over the light line that scarred his throat. It was a huge mistake. Her mouth watered, suddenly seized with the urge to taste his skin. Instead she sucked her lip into her mouth, worrying it between her teeth.

 _If only_ she’d been scared off. If she’d stayed away. If she’d allowed herself to suffer from the onslaught of the Void instead of this -- this hollow empty feeling, where she knew he possessed something that could fix that breach if she just let him. If she gave him part of herself. She couldn’t do it. She would suffer at the will of the Void rather than at the romantic whims of any human.

But oh, how she wanted him...

With no exertion whatsoever she still found herself panting, chest rising and falling against his. Her body heedlessly ignored that logical part of her. It was all she could do to keep still.

* * *

He reveled in her attention, a warmth crashing over his whole body when he felt her close that tiny gap between them. He was now painfully aware that she had shut the door to the safe room. They were alone, for the whole night. Just two of them and their lips and their trembling hands and the silence that settled between them -- the sweet, sweet, understanding silence. He let go of her wrist and reached up, pulling her hair out of the tie she had it in and watching it fall, swallowing harshly. She had him spindled around her finger.

He leaned forward, his chest flush against hers. His lips ghosted over the side of her neck, breath hot and fluttering over sensitive skin, trickling down her collarbone, seeping into her being. " _Truly, there is no quicker means by which a life can be upheaved and sifted..._ " he let his lips meet her flesh, and his eyes shut as they traveled up to her ear, " _...than by the depredations of uncontrolled desire,_ " he nearly cooed, words lined with a breathy lust.

The hand that settled on her side moved to the line of her back and he imagined her arching off of it, laid down beneath him against the hues of lavender bed sheets, her hair sprawled messily out alongside her face, sweat making her glisten, making her glow in the dim flickers of the candlelight.

He wanted her. _Now._ There was no point in trivial thoughts so he didn't make time for them, only her, his attention undivided.

* * *

She’d begun to think her body actively wished her harm. She felt herself bending to its whims again and again. Her head tipped to the side as her hair tumbled down, baring her neck to him just as he brought his lips there -- perfectly in sync. And oh, his lips...

 _Seven Voiddamned bloody fucking strictures._ His words, his touch -- at this point there was no use in denying it, when the physical proof of her arousal was evident. Why would she try? When it felt this good to give in…

She reacted to every brush against her, body no longer able to hold still, wishing nothing lay between them and yet terrified to take any action that might make that the case. She found her lips parting, mouth hot and wet as she breathed against his skin, just barely holding herself back from running her tongue over his bobbing throat. She wanted to taste him. Wanted him to taste her. She _wanted_ so damn much.

 _Kiss me_ , she thought. _Touch me. Write your name in the spaces between my breaths. Take me and break me open and empty me out and fill me up_.

But no words came out. Just a single sound, one she hadn’t heard in a long time, if at all -- all need and desire and sheer surrender, all wrapped in a single pleading moan.

* * *

The noise was enough to set his insides on fire, he felt like he'd melt right then and there where he stood, but he kept himself at bay. Four thousand years of slow, excruciating time made him patient, and also a lot of other things that were sort of irrelevant. He stood there a moment, and a few beats of silence passed between them as he choreographed his next movements. The hand on her waist tightened and he pulled her up off the ground, taking a few steps toward the bed and stopping when the back of her legs pressed against the mattress.

He didn't push her though. He'd made his intentions clear enough, he was certain of that by now. Well, as clear as they could possibly be without him explicitly stating them. He didn't plan on taking her completely, but that didn't mean he couldn't at least give her pleasure.

So he reached up and brushed locks of coffee hues out of the way, nipping at the shell of her ear pleasantly. "I'd like to undo you now, Y _our Majesty,_ " he whispered, wanting her to accept him first.

* * *

Her face stayed pressed into the crook of his neck even as they moved, like dancing, and she knew where they went well before she touched the telltale framing that marked the edge of the bed. Her breath was shaky, feeling like a virgin all over again, and absolutely silly for it. Her eyelashes batted against his skin along with her breath until his request against her ear caught one and stilled the other before she glanced up at him, caution and curiosity unguarded in her gaze.

And she couldn’t look away.

She drowned in his pale eyes.

Her free hand came up to hesitate by his face. Her eyes darted over details she tried to memorize, only having been _quite_ this close once before. Finally, giving up - giving in - she let her hand brush against his cheek, harnessing that sunny glow, that burst of warmth in her chest as she tilted her chin, closing the distance between them more hesitantly than she did almost anything in her life, and ghosting her lips over his for just a moment. With an almost resigned sigh, she let her lips touch his, feeling the sun enter her bloodstream through her mouth - feeling radiant, and resplendent - as if kissing him somehow made her beautiful.

* * *

Ironically, in all of his years of looking down on nobles with cynical distaste for everything they took for granted, it was Empress Emily Kaldwin that wiped the smug look off of his face without even trying. She was so pure it was like holding a piece of fine porcelain betwixt his fingers, and he was just as gentle as such in the beginning, his lips catching hers and lingering, tongue teetering over his lips but maintaining a boundary.

It wasn't long before his physical disposition had begun to fog his mind with an intense, ravenous hunger. He wanted her, not just heart and soul but body too, and he was now suddenly, very physically aware of that. The same _innocent_ boy that had been so driven to attain her father's blessing, who'd been modest enough to resist temptation for the past several days, sunk his teeth into her lower lip playfully, and none too harshly.

He pressed her back against the bed and went toppling down with her, resting at her side and releasing little, breathy chuckles against her lips. He pulled away when he decided that, yes, humans do need to breathe, and instead he focused on her neck, doing what he'd imagined only minutes before. He nipped here and there, sucking along her skin and searching like a beast on the prowl, but with method to his madness.  

His hand lingered at the front of her trousers, fingers nervously toying with her zipper. She was no inexperienced virgin, and though he knew it was petty of him, he wanted to best those before him, he wanted her to remember every touch and bite, sear his presence into her being as though he were Marking her all over again.

* * *

Her heartbeat had already been fast, but now it was stronger - angry, passionate - her blood a fire in her veins that licked deliciously at her skin. A soft groan escaped the lips he nipped at, cutting off into a slight squeak as they tumbled onto the bed, the involuntary noise making her blush. But her embarrassment was quickly forgotten, his lips on her neck making her vision white. She still held back - she always held back - but it was hard.

Her back arched dramatically, grinding her hips back into the mattress even as she shifted her head to allow him more access. Her tongue swept over open lips, panting, unable to form words and not knowing what she’d say if she could. Tentative hands hesitated on the sheets before exploring, moving lithe fingers over fabric, one skimming up his hip to clutch at the back of his shirt, the other tracing his shoulder, cupping his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair but not directing him anywhere.

His hand, paused, teased her. She felt her chest flush under her blouse, knowing exactly where this might go, and her grip in his hair tightened, tugging gently.

She turned her eyes to him, watching him, fascinated -- aroused. Pink lips remained parted, as though waiting for him to return, ready to accept his mouth as soon as he cared to grace her with it. Her skin was vibrating with the energy of him, nipples tight, muscles tense and taught, unsure what to expect. He must know so much… Eyelids fluttered shut as she imagined all that he had seen over thousands of years of human existence. He must’ve borne witness to it all. Every ravenous appetite, every depraved coupling... Her curiosity flared.

* * *

Slow. Excruciating. He would have her begging, or perhaps he would just annoy her, but it would be a delectable annoyance -- wistful sighs and pouts and all of those entitled little expressions flashing across her delicate features. He wanted to see them all, but they had time; he would string it out, savor it while he could. All of the time in the world would never be enough.

He left her trousers unbuttoned, opened, the undergarments below now exposed to him. He had to force himself not to tease her with his fingers. The only thing more exhilarating than touch was the thought of touch, the agonizing absence of a lover's caress and undivided attention.

His hand trailed up the center of her stomach, dancing over buttons as he leaned up and dragged his lips down over Emily's, letting her have a taste of a kiss, rather than the full experience. "Emily Kaldwin," he whispered, locking his nails under the buttons of her blouse and pushing them out of their places. "Child born out of wedlock, empress turned savior of the Isles, Serkonan half-blood... and the first one to ever twist the Outsider himself around her spindling fingers as though weaving a wicked tapestry with nothing but the will of her mind and heated desire alone." His words tumbled forward against her neck and jaw, of which were already teeming with little marks he couldn't quite see beyond the haze of his growing appetite.

He watched her closely, still remaining on his side but propped on his elbow and leaning against her. He would not straddle her, not yet, he'd let her simmer first, watch her break and crumble for him; it wouldn't be fun if he gave her everything she so desired all at once.

"I believe, Emily," he dipped his lips down, slowly pulling himself over her just a bit more so that he could mouth the hard rosy bud as he dragged the fabric away, "that you might just be the most fascinating person in history yet..." His tongue slipped around and he held her there between his teeth, carefully of course. He wouldn't push her, not until he knew her boundaries.

* * *

She was part relieved and part _incredibly annoyed_ when his hand didn’t _finish the damned job_ he’d started. The air of the room only made her need for him that much more obvious - to her, at least - as she bucked her hips toward him, a whine slipping through gritted teeth. Still he moved away, and she threw her head back with a frustrated groan, hands slamming down on the mattress and fingers digging into the sheets, practically pouting.

She licked her lips, tongue just brushing his as he teased her, and breathed in her name from his mouth. Nothing could sound better. She loved his voice, loved when he talked. Before she’d ever touched him, she’d heard him. He may have lost the echo of the Void, but his voice still sent shivers down her spine, making her writhe hungrily. She could just pounce on him, dragging his lips to hers, placing his hands exactly where she wanted them, rolling on top of him and taking control -- but she held back. She wasn’t quite sure why. The tension was taking her to dizzying heights, waiting and wanting, greedy to experience every torment he offered her. She could hardly control her undulating body, so focused on not jumping him right then and there.

Her eyes were hooded, out of focus as his lips and tongue caressed sensitive skin. She dug her own teeth into her lip as he grasped her, but couldn’t hold back the whimper, pressing her chest toward him, nearly begging. She sucked a quick breath between her teeth, pressing her thighs together, wriggling her hips, praying for some kind of relief. Her voice was a breathy accusation, hardly more than air next to the small sound of exertion. “ _Nnh-_...Tease.”

* * *

Watching her bend to his will, back arched, body quivering at his touch, it triggered something within him that turned every stiff little movement into something free flowing, almost muscle memory, eyelids lowering as his near glowing pale emeralds scanned her feverish figure. He felt himself throbbing now, shaft pressing at the fabric of his pants, desperate for attention, or at the very least, a bit more space. He needed to be patient though.

As much as this was for her, it was also for himself. Before the Void, he had grown old enough to know his own touch intimately. He knew what he liked, in those rare moments when he _did_ have time to himself. When he wasn't running, hiding, searching for food. Though he'd seen women and men ravaging one another from his place in the Void, he never knew the warmth of another against him. The action itself had been so futile in his mind - a natural process similar to eating or sleeping - but now it had devoured him. He embraced it completely; this was so much more than anything he'd ever thought it to be.

He quickly came to the realization that he knew everything and yet _absolutely nothing_ all at once.

But then the sight of Emily bucking her hips made his head go blank and all of the blood rush south.

When his voice escaped his lips it came out hushed, almost shaking, the corners of his lips tugging upwards in amusement. "I've hardly touched you at all and yet you look as though you're already teetering towards the edge, losing your footing... What's holding you back? What's stopping you from tripping into free fall?" His fingers graced downwards again and he slipped his mouth along the other side of her chest, giving it the same roughly adoring treatment for a brief moment before drawing away, lips brushing against her skin as he spoke. "Have you ever thought that perhaps... it would be so deliciously pleasant to lose control completely? Bare yourself to another? No facades, no defiance... no clothing."

His fingers pushed into her trousers, applying pressure to the wetness that had gathered along the fabric, rubbing methodically against the button above her lips. "You could stop me, you're perfectly capable of pinning me down, unraveling me and plunging into my depths -- but you won't." His lips returned to her neck and stopped at her ear. "Because you're so very curious. You yearn to lose yourself - even for a moment - to shed your title, your authority, your responsibility..." He was panting and he didn't know why.

"Admit it, Emily Kaldwin." He leaned in and kissed her cheek, mimicking the one she'd given him those few nights ago behind the fireplace. "You _long_ desperately to be taken and molded like clay in somebody else's hands. Because deep down... you're just as much of a touch starved _masochist_ as I am." His voice was unnervingly steady, but he was clearly holding something back, taking on a darker, sinister tone.

* * *

His words….

His words his words his words his words his _words_.

Each sound from his lips, every phoneme like the keys of a piano played a melody on her body. He dripped poison in her ear, tempting her, swaying her, teasing her, even as his lips- his tongue- his _teeth_ -

Her toes curled, her body shook, and a hand flew to her mouth trying to stifle her cries, biting down on a knuckle as he bit down on her.

With previous partners Emily often took control -- perhaps due to her natural assertive attitude, perhaps because no one wanted to accidentally mistreat an empress. She was used to being the one that pinned her partner to the mattress, teased them mercilessly until they were either physically dripping or rock hard, drew out their pleasure until they begged her for release, or gave as good as they got. Of course, the roles had been switched before - at least one particular night came to mind - but those were the exception, not the rule.

But now-

Her response to his returned hand was immediate and violent, desire rippling through her body. “ _Fuck--_ ” The word burst around the digit in her mouth, high and breathless, and she shifted her hand, biting the flesh where her thumb met her palm, trying to keep quiet even as a low moan rumbled through her, her free hand clenching and unclenching in the now thoroughly distressed sheets. She squirmed, resisting the urge to pounce, resisting the urge to beg him, just letting his words slip like knowing hands over her skin, lavishing her with truths that only heightened her arousal.

She choked back a whimper as torrid breath breezed in her ear and unraveled all her secrets, laying her motivations bare. He knew her so well, so intimately, to read these things from her. Perhaps some things he couldn’t understand, but this - this delicate exchange of power - he seemed to know instinctually. His kiss on her cheek was obvious payback, and she realized: he did it much better. If he was wrapped around her finger, it was only because she was tangled with him already, wound together, inseparable. But admit it? Not so easily.

She had no reason to refuse, but she did. She wouldn’t give up so quickly, not when resisting was such delicious torture. So instead of admitting anything - saying anything - she ground herself against his hand and turned her head quickly, in search of his lips. She could have grabbed him, mounted him, sucked at his skin and marked him herself -- but hands clenched into fists, restraining herself for the sake of their battle of wills.

* * *

He felt himself straining against his trousers and a growl escaped him that surprised even himself. His hand left her for only a moment so that he could unbutton them, push them down his hips, but his touch returned to her and this time he was more persistent.

His thumb drifted over the tender, reddening pearl but his other fingers focused now on her entrance, pushing past royal lace and into her warmth as though he knew exactly what he was doing, following each and every primal urge that ran through him like the adrenaline that riddled his veins furiously.

"Nothing to say but a measly curse? I... expected more of a pout, or perhaps... a whine in protest. R-Really Emily, you've never stopped being that child empress have you?" he teased her, the grin on lips clear in the tone of his breathy voice, speaking through labored pants. Maybe she wasn't the only one holding herself back.

"A-Always getting what you want, every subject tripping over themselves desperately just to please you, the whole empire at your mercy. But here you are, at _mine._ " He moved his fingers in an abrupt curling motion, as if beckoning her forward, pressing against the pulsing nerves within her -- but suddenly pulling back, easing his touch. He was testing her.

Four thousand years strengthened his patience, but he wondered just how far he could string her along until she snapped back like elastic. He wondered how much she could take, if he could make every touch last a lifetime, every whispered syllable ringing in her ears until they faded into the cosmos together.

But if he was being blunt and honest, he wanted nothing more than to skip the foreplay and pound into her with every fiber of his being until she saw the stars themselves being hungrily, messily consumed by the reaches of oblivion. He wanted to completely strip her of the societal labels she'd hidden behind for so long and take her raw, vulnerable, without restraint or boundary or anything separating them.

He was patient. The Outsider. Oliver. Lir. Whoever he was, he was a patient man. He kept telling himself that.

* * *

Emily bit her lip with a fierce determination, tasting blood even as she tried so hard - so so hard - not to cry out, to beg him for more, demand more, flexing around his fingers, muscles spasming, needing _more_. She threw her head back, with another frustrated groan. “ _Mm-hm-hm-hm-hmmm--_ ” Her bitten lip stopped her from the ‘please’ that sat at the tip of her tongue. She could sense his heat next to her, practically feeling the throbbing, and she- just- wanted-

She rocked her hips against his hand, over and over, driving herself further and further. Her mind was gone, lost in a world that just funneled every word over her in slick dripping waves, spilling across her skin. A pout, a whine -- those she could do, but the sounds that seemed to pulse from every erogenous zone on her body were all expletives and obscenities. The vulgarities she’d hiss into a lover’s ear as she touched them -- not unlike his current actions. Realizing how her lovers must feel, she felt incredibly sorry and incredibly proud at the same time. Truly an ecstatic punishment.

His fingers inside her, stroking her, dragged her lip from between her teeth, followed by another, panted curse. “ _Damn-...fucking- tease-_ ” Her fingers flexed again, her writhing only growing stronger, wriggling her hips, to get as much of him as she could, itching to grab him, to pull him onto her - into her. She growled, patience quickly dwindling.

Her back arched dramatically and she shook her head from side to side, but the words tumbled from her in a dark husky snarl. “You’d damn well be ready to fuck me after this, or I swear- by the Void- by all the _blasted_ Abbey and every Isle in this _fucking_ Empire-” A keening whine cut off her words, desperate and demanding.

* * *

Her voice sent the embers within him ablaze, a raging wildfire settling in his core and threatening to engulf him from the inside out. For a moment, everything seemed so surreal, like a distant dream he'd had as a human all that time ago. The noises she made sent shivers down his spine, the expressions flickering across her features like the sparks off of a match. He admired them, appreciating the way her brows would furrow and knit together against her forehead glistening with sweat, lips captured between teeth, the unfiltered desperation that danced through her body to the music he made with her in the heat of the moment. Rasping breaths, quiet groans, and then she let go.

And he laughed, genuinely, not loudly or quietly, adoration thick in his voice. Perhaps he should let go too.

"Emily," he whispered into her ear, dipping his face down to her neck, sucking and biting, bringing her between his lips and tasting her as she was now, without the shields and barriers, hard brick walls she built for herself. Now she was soft and pliable, compliant beneath him, begging even.

Emily Kaldwin was begging him. She _yearned_ for him.

He immediately pulled himself over her, pressing his trousers down and letting them slip to the floor without a second thought. Mostly because there were no thoughts, only Emily. Sprawled out beneath him, arching and pleading and _perfect_ \-- she was faultless. She was angelic. "Emily, you're perfect." He spoke, not caring in the slightest about his uneven tone. She needed to know -- he wanted her to know how much she meant to him, how much she'd always meant to him.

He nestled between her thighs, swallowing harshly and glancing up to meet her gaze. "...Is this good? You're alright with this?" he questioned suddenly. He didn't want to break the mood, but he couldn't stand the idea of her regretting it, that she was uncertain or had changed her mind.

* * *

His laugh would’ve made her grin - it still made her heart jump - if she wasn’t busy being so damned hot for him. His touch was her sunlight and she was burning up from him (and for him, and with him, around him): a destruction built of skin and sweat and hunger. So instead she glared as the blush spread over her bared skin, eyes still clouded with lust even as they blazed. She attempted anger, but there was also pleading there. A desperate need.

She’d managed to wriggle her trousers further down her legs with his various ministrations, and they finally slipped to the ground with the shiver that went through her as she felt the skin of her neck bruising from his attention, that gorgeous ache that promised a mark -- a new mark, to go with the other, both given to her by the same beautiful man. As he spoke her name yet again, voice raw with emotion, she realized she would gladly take any sort of mark he offered. If he wanted to bruise her skin with his kisses, so be it. She would wear them as a badge, as proof that she had tamed the god -- that he had tamed her.

He paused before her. Why? She wanted him so badly and he hesitated.

His questions quieted her fires - though they still burned as hot as ever - and she found her gaze softening, frustration replaced with that delicate gentle need that was so unlike the Empress of the Isles. She hesitated for all of a second, as though she might truly think out the consequences of her actions, but impulse won out. “A thousand times yes,” she whispered. The flush in her chest had spread, reaching all the way to her hairline and the tips of her ears, the golden skin gone peachy. “Now…” A knee lifted, gently rubbing her thigh against his as it did so, and the husk was back in her voice, despite the blush.  “Did I, or did I not, tell you to _fuck me_.”

* * *

There was another chuckle but this time it was riddled with the faintest bit of uncertainty. He hadn't done this before, though he'd seen it plenty of times -- watching with furrowed brows and idle hands, rolling his eyes, finding no particular pleasure in being an unwilling voyeur... especially when it was Emily with other people, and he could not pull back his prying gaze.

But she was his now, and that's what mattered; this moment above all others, limbs entangled, her hips bucking up, desperation clear in the tone of her voice and the little sounds that broke the small silences between them. Mesmerizing, the empress was absolutely enchanting -- mystifying in every sense of the word.

His eyes widened at her obscenity but he admired it, the defiance in all of her actions, the way she held herself, sharp chin and pink pursed lips and dark, piercing eyes that could cut into his soul if they were the daggers she hid in her boots. Slender figure before him, beckoning him forward without words, whispering to him without voice, he felt himself throbbing, pulsing at the very thought of-

"Of course, _Your Imperial Majesty,_ " he whispered, his voice husky, a low gravel to it that had never shown itself before. He pressed into her, face hidden in the crook of her neck as he caught his lip between his teeth and stifled back his own treacherous moans. He chided himself when a small one escaped, a mixture of primal lust and blissful relief as he pushed his shaft further, throbbing within her, "...Emily... _fuck-_ " he nearly whined, cheeks reddening at the sound of his own words. That was the first time he'd ever cursed.

* * *

It had been a while since she’d been with anyone, but it was just as good as she remembered - that sensation of being filled, of skin on skin - the very human carnality of it. A deep breath, a catch in her throat, and she closed her eyes with a shaking sigh, arching her back, pebbled nipples brushing against his chest as she bit her lip, shifting her hips just right. Her satisfied hum turned into a low breathless chuckle at his profanity. His words never failed him. Always a word - too many words - ready to spin complex arguments, images, barbs, seductions -- and now he was reduced to common expletives. And _she_ did that to him.

She couldn’t hide the impish grin if she’d tried. “A surprise to hear such foul language from an Empress’s consort…” she teased with a purr, though the effect was somewhat lessened by the frequent breaks for her heavy breaths. A hand combed through his hair, twirling it into curls, massaged his scalp, before tangling her fingers in the dark nest and giving a gentle squeeze, a slight tug that coincided with her own moan as she ground against him. Her mouth watered hungrily. She’d already been heightened by his attentions before, and now that familiar itch tightened in her abdomen, urging her for more. “And such- a shame-” she tried to sound smug, but her voice was breathy, rising in pitch slightly. “Your words were- what seduced me in the first p- place-” The word drifted off to a hissed pant as she tightened the hand in his hair, biting her tongue to keep from voicing her urges even as she rocked herself against him.

It was true, too. It wasn’t just their magnetic pull, the way he silenced the Void - or even just the stunning cut of his jaw or general beauty - but the way he spoke, the words he used, how his tongue seemed to pluck each choice from the air and kiss it into the ether.

* * *

There were no words at first. He adjusted, struggling to keep himself at bay, to hold his own climax back so that he wouldn't leave her unsatisfied. But he was patient. He had to be patient. He was trying so hard to be _patient_ \-- so hard he was practically mouthing the words to himself against her neck as he began to rock into her, not pulling out all of the way, but hilting each time, aiming for that spot. Whenever he nudged it he felt her tighten around him delectably, he actively sought it out, leaning up and suddenly brushing his lips over hers, kissing the corners of her mouth and her cheeks, peppering her face with little lingering affectionate pecks before turning down to focus on her chest.

Her lovely, petite figured chest - her skin like silk beneath his touch - the taste of sweat stinging his tongue and drawing him in for more. He relished it, not only the feeling of being within her, but tangling himself around her, one with her --  _her_. He _ravaged_ her, starved for more, but he knew nothing would ever be enough to satiate his hunger for the woman beneath him.

"No words," he breathed out, his voice reaching a high point, rasping, teetering over the edge of a growl. "None within any language, dead or alive, spoken, unspoken, i-in all of... the world's time... could begin to describe my- adoration for you, Emily Kaldwin," he stammered, too focused on the motion of his hips, meeting the rhythm between them perfectly, his movements graceful but desperate for more, like an animal, completely unrestrained and lacking in his characteristic stiffness.

He led a hand down, two fingers brushing against the ruby above her occupied entrance in the same way that scandalous textbooks detailed it, or the way that courtesans were taught to; he'd seen it, now it was a matter of putting it into action, and he most certainly wasn't failing in that respect.

* * *

Her words melted into unintelligible sounds - moans, hums, strangled breaths against his lips - with each thrust, legs wrapped around him. His lips on her skin sent tremors through her body, sharp sensations that made the muscles in her back and legs tense and tremble. His movements, his voice, his words, the warmth from his body and the friction -- all of it.  Her lips fell open as she panted, head rolling back again, his reverence washing over her, licking at her skin.

She choked back a piercing gasp at his touch, but couldn’t silence the pleading whine, the tight whimpers, the tiny but shrill whispered, “ _Fuck-!_ ” as she grabbed his wrist, slipping her shaky hand over his, holding him against her, using him for her own wanton needs. The other hand still tangled in his hair trembled just as much. Her whimpers pleaded for something, but there was nothing to be given except more of the same, and she was breaking -- but continuously, over and over, a constant barrage of mewling agonizing ecstasy, a wave that she never wanted to end.

She tugged on his hair, bringing her lips to his ear - knocking against him clumsily as she writhed - and her words were hot against his skin, pleading, moaning, distraught. “More - please, more - _Lir_ -”

* * *

His hips bucked into her a bit more wildly than he would have liked to admit. His control nearly shattered when he heard his name and immediately he leaned up to catch it on her lips, sharing the taste with her between raspy, desperate breaths.

Something stirred at the core of him and he knew he was close, he knew _she_ was close, her warmth hugging the entirety of his length tighter with each and every thrust. He relented, pulling up off of her and settling onto his knees. He tugged her closer, wrapping her legs around his waist hastily and reaching up to unbutton his shirt as he kept his pace, his movements so harsh that the bed beneath them creaked, probably hitting the wall but he wasn't worried about that.

His shirt toppled down to the side, another thing he wasn't worried about right now. His hands settled at her hips and lifted her up off of the bed so that he could angle himself, but also so that he could watch her in all of her glistening glory as she twisted and writhed, her body vulnerable, completely at his mercy. "I-Impossible things," he whispered, mostly to himself, "y-you've given me absolutely... imp-possible things." His grip on her tightened. "I-I'm close.. I'm v-very close," he warned.

* * *

She let him go and whimpered again as he moved her, her strength momentarily forgotten in her vulnerable state, thankful for the direction as she truly could not have done it herself. Hands reached blindly for him, running over that part of his newly bared torso that she could reach, finally grabbing onto his wrists where they held her, and just in time. She grit her teeth, nearly shrieking when he found just that right angle, and he needn’t have warned her. Her eyelids fluttered, body trembling and spasming even as it locked up, clutching his wrists maybe a little too hard, her voice - her breath - caught in her throat.

When it did finally return it was one hard gasp, convulsing again and again, and then that keening wail, that whimper, a mix of all the noises and all the desire -- entirely animalistic, the rawest form of herself. She trembled violently, his continued movements drawing out her agony, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to stop or keep going, the feeling was so incredibly overwhelming.  

* * *

His eyes widened and he nearly forgot what he was doing, staring down at her in awe, cheeks reddened to a near cherry hue. He was quickly pulled back into reality when he felt her tighten again, eyes rolling back and closing as he moaned out, unable to stop his voice as it leaped from his open mouth.

It was a completely new sensation, and suddenly he could understand how one might become addicted to it. Perhaps he was addicted to _her_ as it was, her voice and her eyes shut tight and her hands, lovely manicured hands gripping his wrists, the way her body curved off the bed, everything so exquisite. He gasped and his breath caught so abruptly he thought he might choke as he edged forward into his climax, brows knitting together tensely. His pace slowed, jagged movements halting. "Emily... E-...nngh." He trembled, holding her still as his chest rose and fell.

He collapsed beside her, vision hazy, as though he were swimming, submerged in his own bliss, he felt like he was drowning in all of the best ways.

* * *

Emily’s mind was blissfully blank. No thoughts of the Void, or of imperial duties, or of any stress or trouble in her life, just the buzzing of her skin and the aftershocks that still trembled through her. She wasn’t anything close to cold but she still shivered. Her ears only heard a dull hum, the thudding of her pulse, and the sound of her own breaths -- and his, once she was listening long enough. Her body was useless in the best way. Her limbs were jelly, but she managed to roll over a bit, kissing whichever part of him met her lips first, and laying there, just breathing against him.

She was exhausted. He must be exhausted. All that tension, snapped. She nuzzled into her current resting place, cheek against his shoulder, still too tired to bother doing anything with her arms or legs aside from drag them wherever the rest of her body seemed to go.

Gradually, as her mind returned, she was able to comprehend those little details she’d missed in her lusty haze. _Impossible things_. That’s what he’d said that night -- that first night, the night he’d kissed her -- the night he’d cursed her. _What I wish for are impossible things._ He’d thought his death was imminent -- and it was, in a way. She’d been his last kiss then, and his first kiss now. Symmetrical, in that aspect.

* * *

His lips were upturned, not in amusement but in delight. Albeit, an exhausted delight that barely met his eyes but regardless, he was absolutely ecstatic. Glimmering even, in the dim candlelight, a silence falling upon them as his breathing gradually slowed and they laid there, basking in the afterglow of blissful release. Now he knew.

Now he understood those simple, trivial things that made a human a human. Fixations on sex were more than the act itself, but the implications -- the heat and passion, the closeness and the reassurance that came from being with another person, sharing your demons to such an intimate degree. She'd seen him now, for what he had been and for what he was, and it was her acceptance that felt so pleasantly warm within him.

His eyes flickered over to her resting body and he ran the back of his hand down her side - not with a lustful gaze, but admiration - studying the dips and curves of her figure almost curiously, knuckles gracing her skin. "... I don't suppose you own any high collared jackets, do you Emily?" He questioned, eyes meeting her neck. The bruising would fade, he knew that much, but he doubted it'd be gone by breakfast.  
  
Even if she did own any, he knew Corvo was already needlessly suspicious as it was, always on high alert and looking for patterns where none existed. How easily would he spy something hidden in plain sight? But Oliver was too tired to be terrified. His eyes closed and he rested his hand there, laying on his side and facing her, pulling the blanket up.


	7. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew soon he'd have to get up. He'd have to wash himself and dress and slick his hair to the side and put a little charcoal on his eyelids so as to bring out the color; he'd have to be _human_ like everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, OneWhoTurns wrote Emily and Corvo, Lavender_Whalebones wrote Outsider/Oliver.

There were no dreams of the Void haunting his sleep, no torturous staccato of whales, just calm, dreamless rest. Arguably the best kind. He felt fulfilled, satisfied and comfortable where he lay. Even when morning came and he felt the groggy emergence of consciousness creeping up on him he still remained there, sprawled out along the bedsheets, his clothes littering the floor.

He let out a deep, contented sigh, prepared to lay there all morning long, even though he knew they had a day to look forward to, walls to build, standards to meet. They couldn't just sit here, skin against skin, silently holding one another. He knew soon he'd have to get up. He'd have to wash himself and dress and slick his hair to the side and put a little charcoal on his eyelids so as to bring out the color; he'd have to be _human_ like everyone else. And then he'd have breakfast with Emily and Corvo. ...Corvo...

His eyes shot open. "Report," he whispered, furrowing his brows. "... Report," he repeated. He threw himself out of bed so quickly he nearly fell flat on his face, rushing over to the chair at the workbench and throwing himself into work, scribbling away at a new piece of paper. He hadn't even gotten to the nature of the Void, the way it watched people from within, or the branches, hells the _branches_ , horrible glimpses of eternity — or the leviathans that swam through the air with glossy eyes and skin torn and gnarled, or the vast, insatiable hunger that rang like an echo through reality-

He stared down at the papers, hands being rather disagreeable. He couldn't possibly write as fast as he could think, especially when his handwriting was so meticulous. Perhaps it'd be easier to type, but it would lose all sense of meaning and impact, it would completely strip this report of the Void itself, leaving it a hollow husk of what it should be. So, put simply: he'd have to postpone the project, finish it tonight after dinner. Corvo Attano would not be happy with that. Not only that, but he'd have to conjure up an excuse, he'd have to _lie_ to the Lord Protector. And also make it believable.

Lying was not his forte.

He was most definitely awake enough to be terrified of that man.

* * *

Emily stirred with a heavy inhale and satisfied sigh. She curled fingers and toes, stretching and bending and taking up the whole bed as she luxuriated in her own skin. She let out a deep morning moan as she spread her arms wide, flexed her feet and hips, reached back, hooking a hand over her shoulder to stretch. She felt that perfect soreness, like she would after a particularly difficult night’s run of the city. Muscles throbbed that hadn’t seen use in some time, and she rubbed the back of her neck, hand slowly curving around to the front, feeling the small aching spots that peppered her skin. Her lips curved into a wicked grin as she opened her eyes.

She rolled over, shifting to face toward where he sat at the workbench. She bit her lip and managed to keep her laugh silent, shoulders bouncing with the effort, just shaking her head at him sitting - stark naked - writing furiously. It was very hard to keep quiet. So instead she directed her attention away, glancing over the little bed nook, curious to see if he’d changed anything.

There wasn’t much to change, but there were still papers that had been knocked to the floor in their fervor of the night before — the thought of which made heat spread across her chest again. She leaned her chin in the crook of one arm while the other swept down, browsing through the sheets that had just escaped being completely crumpled by excited limbs just hours ago. She was surprised to find a couple of her old drawings, at least one of which she remembered drawing during her time cooped up at the Hound Pits Pub, but also-

Her gaze flicked up, glancing at his back - the Outsider, Oliver, _Lir’s_ back - as she gently drew the page away from the others. The sketch wasn’t entirely finished, but it was obvious what it was — and the detail was astounding. He never ceased to amaze her, one body that held innumerable stories and talents. She supposed four thousand years would give a man a lot of time to learn. A finger passed over the spot in the drawing where her fingers were linked with his. It had only been days since all of this began. A wild ride of pain and hope and guilt and now… She paused. She didn’t want to start thinking about all the possible consequences of her actions. She just wanted to enjoy what they had right this second.

She let the sadness pass, sitting up on her elbows and watching him for another moment before shifting over and digging a hand under the bed. She used to keep a spare robe under there-

Nope, no robe, but she did feel her fingers passing over the dulled point of an old bone charm she’d strapped to the underside of the bed years ago, when she’d first been worried about contraception. She’d been a little obsessive, taking every possible precaution, her months at the Golden Cat having at least taught her something useful alongside all the other awful things. Both this bed and the one in her bedroom had contraceptive charms that she - as a sixteen year old who wouldn’t even sleep with someone for another two years, and not with a man for four - had deemed completely necessary. Well, that relieved an anxiety she hadn’t even remembered to be worried about. She shook her head, trying not to chastise herself for how hurriedly this had all happened. They’d kissed, what, once before? And suddenly…

She let out a soft breath, resolving to forgive herself for the impropriety, and glanced around until she found the spare robe she sought, folded on a shelf beside the bed. She stood, with another long stretch, and slipped the navy silk over her bare skin. Silent delicate steps brought her to the workbench and she slipped her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, ducking to kiss the top of his head. Touching him still made her skin sing, gave her such a high... Feeling particularly playful, she nuzzled her face into his hair, moving to nibble his ear. “Good morning,” she purred, arms wrapping around to squeeze his shoulders in a hug even as her mouth sought his neck. She may still have been a touch frisky — it was a side effect of the morning. Helped along with how incredibly well-rested she was.

* * *

He heard her wake but did not turn to look, brows furrowed in concentration as he idly gnawed at the inside of his cheek. He wrote attentively, but it was when he felt her press against him, her lips soft against his neck, her hands, so perfectly manicured, contrasting his own which were scarred in some places, calloused with nails bitten down out of habit. It was then that he stopped. He was most definitely _not_ going to finish this report today if she kept at that.

He drew the air into his mouth and let out a wistful sigh, eyes fluttering closed. "You're in a rather chipper mood this morning. I wonder why." He spoke sarcastically, with lips curling into a small smirk. He didn't mind being exposed, but admittedly it was a bit cold. He had the same marks she had too, he could feel them, little pieces of evidence left behind by the previous night's happenings. His body otherwise was almost shockingly clear, he was perfectly aware of that.

He did not sport the same physique that Corvo or any of the laborers did; he was leaner, less bulk and more grace — it was another one of those ancient Tyvian traits. No matter how much he tried to tan he'd probably never get much darker than near white sand of the Serkonan shoreline. He wondered if that bothered Emily, suddenly feeling a little self conscious. Maybe he should have at least put on a pair of pants...

* * *

She grinned against his skin at his words, kissing him on his jaw, behind his ear, on his neck, his shoulder… She was always affectionate in the mornings, before her daily walls came up, and today even more so. Her kisses lavished his skin until she finally slipped around him and straddled his lap, leaning to one side so his writing hand would still be free. She didn’t want to stop him from getting anything done, after all.

Her lips continued to work him over as she breathed him in. He still smelled like sex. She probably did, too. She liked it, but she always had — that lingering evidence of the satisfaction she had given and taken from her partner in turn. The hand on his writing side, to stay out of the way, trailed over his torso, passing a thumb over his chest as his mouth had over hers the night before. She shifted gently against him, bare thighs on his as her robe spilled off the front of the chair, draping over his knees, the sash - only casually tied - already coming loose.

She closed her teeth over his shoulder in a soft bite, just scraping them over his skin before kissing again, letting herself spoil him with affection. She couldn’t be physically affectionate all day, so she’d have to make up for it now. Besides, once they left this room she’d have to deal with figuring out what was going on.

It had become clear to her that she’d been lying when she thought she didn’t have feelings for him. She did. It was just easier to see now. Despite her dislike of being hugged or touched by people she didn’t know well, she’d always been very physical with her partners. It was important to have that physical touch, and she hadn’t realized how much she needed it from him until she allowed herself to take it free of guilt. She wasn’t sure she would call it love - it was a label she often shied away from - but there was certainly affection, perhaps even infatuation. The thing she worried over was how much of her affection came from the relief his presence brought?

But no, she wouldn’t think of that. She’d been fascinated by him before she’d ever been touched by the Void. She’d felt for him. Been intrigued by who he was and how he was, the way he spoke, the story of his life. She wanted to know more about him. Even now, she had so much she could ask him. But more than that, in the moment she just wanted to be around him. To bask in his presence, in the sunshine his touch brought into her veins. She shifted in his lap again, nuzzling into his shoulder, sighing.

* * *

There was certainly no protest coming from him, the quill slipping out of his hand. He set it on her waist, eyes scanning her body, studying the fine details, memorizing them as well as he possibly could. He would draw her later like this, he decided. Her hair disheveled and tumbling down her back and shoulders, the playful glimmer in her gaze, her lips peppering over him, affectionate, warm, unrestricted.

She was so beautiful that it made his heart swell in his chest and he wished that there were some way he could convey how much he felt, but words escaped him, and he knew that they couldn't even begin do her justice anyways. He also knew that she grew bored quickly, and the last thing he wanted was to lose her attention. She always had his. But doubt burdened his shoulders, whispering awful things in his ears that made shivers run down his spine. Or perhaps it was just her touch provoking them. He couldn't tell.

He reached up and settled the back of his hand against her chest, feeling the pulse beneath her skin before dipping it down over the loose tie and toying with the sash. Ducking forward, he settled his lips against her midsection, pressing gentle kisses wherever he could but stopping abruptly and smirking. "My my, Empress Emily Kaldwin, not only are you harboring a heretic, but now you're having an affair with The Outsider himself. The _gall —_ how the corruption has tainted you, seeped into your being... The Abbey would be so very disappointed in your actions," he chastised sarcastically.

* * *

She adored his touch. It was warm and reverent and reminded her of lazing about on the roof on summer days. Fingers played through his hair as he kissed her skin, a softness in her eyes that so rarely appeared. Her smile turned wicked at his words, as they stirred that desire in her again.

As the silk of her robe slipped down her shoulders she hooked a finger under his chin, lifting his face. She admired him for a moment, staring into those gorgeous pale eyes, his hair a mess. Beautiful. He was absolutely beautiful. All of this ‘former’ god business — he still was one. Still otherworldly and breathtaking. And _hers_. She brought her lips down to his gently: a sweet chaste kiss.

With a slow shift of her hips on his lap, she ghosted her lips to his ear. “Fuck the Abbey.”

* * *

"I wouldn't be surprised," he teased with a small, devious smirk. He leaned forward, both hands now planted on her thighs and carefully sculpting their way up to her hips, dipping beneath the silk that played on her skin. He grazed his kisses along her chest once more then suddenly nipped playfully just beneath her collarbone.

His eyes flickered up to hers and the corner of his lips upturned smugly. "I don't believe we have much time for another game, dear Emily. Your father might grow suspicious, sitting at the breakfast table alone muttering to himself over a cup of black coffee. I wonder if he'd send someone to check on you? What a compromising position they'd catch the Empress of the Isles in... Only fuel for nasty rumors, wouldn't you say?" He peppered kisses over the dull bruising along the length of her neck. Perhaps it was a silent apology, perhaps he just liked the way she tasted in the morning.

* * *

Emily had been grinning, but the mention of her real-life duties made her lips twist and nose scrunch. She’d been so happy to avoid that. Her scowl softened at his lips on her neck, fingers twirling idly in his hair. Finally she sighed, supposing he was right. She buried her face in his hair, breathing him in one last time before untangling their bodies. Pulling the robe around herself again, she shot him a playful smirk. “Well, at least I’m clothed.” Somewhat, at least. Glancing back toward the bed she spotted their attire of the night before, spilling off the sides and onto the floor, tangled in sheets. Picking through the fabric wasn’t exactly something she wanted to do at the moment, so she may as well leave it. Being that close to the bed again may not be the best idea, anyway.

She had fallen to temptation. All of her promises to herself, assuring herself that it was better she didn’t… She wasn’t sure how she felt about it anymore. She… felt things for him. She would’ve spent all day with him if it was possible, but there was work to be done — for both of them. Speaking of which-

Her eyes scanned the workbench, looking over some of the pages that had been set aside. His penmanship was flawless. She picked up a page, looking it over as her gaze sharpened and her focus shifted. “...I’m going to have to ask Corvo to have duplicates made,” she murmured. “I’d quite like my own copy of this — this copy, if I can convince him to part with it. You have lovely handwriting,” she added, not looking up from her perusal of the document.

* * *

Oliver's eyes traced her figure as she moved — not with any particular grace, but with a certain agility to her step that he'd always admired, even from the vestiges of the Void where he waited, always watching, always thinking. He looked over the papers, swallowing softly to himself and nodding. "...There are some things about the world no one should know. Let alone the Empress of the Isles... or some lowly urchin born of common waste, ripped off the streets. It would be in your best interest to keep one manuscript, lest someone unsavory get their greedy hands on information they might use to further their own interests..." he warned warily. "You and I are well aware that knowledge is power." He pulled the papers together, sighing as he began to spin little webs of lies in his head, hoping that the Lord Protector himself would at least have some pity and _pretend_ to believe them...

The morning went by much quicker than he would have preferred. He used her washroom, idly chattering with her as he readied himself for the day, lining his eyes with just the slightest bit of charcoal and slicking his hair down carefully. For someone who'd been born less than a peasant with not a cent to his name, living amongst street rats and con men, he sure cared for himself meticulously.

Truth be told, he had finally gotten his body back; he wanted to take care of it.

Once he'd finished the routine he'd established for himself, he stood against the wall outside the door, waiting patiently for Emily to finish up as well. She seemed occupied, reading the report he'd written, unfinished as it was. It read like a novel, some parts so difficult to understand they seemed almost pieces of pure fiction. It was a contradictory thing, the Void. Thus far, his report detailed the creatures of the Void, encased in stone: so lost to the influence of eternity that they'd been devoured, not dead nor alive, no discernible human features, just walking stone golems with no sense of self, stripped of their identities only for a taste of immortality.

There were pages that recollected the apathy and yet somehow _twisted_ malevolence of its interests. It was not man, nor being, but entity in itself; not location, but tangible; not state of mind, but present _within_ the mind. There was no escaping it, only appeasing it for just a little longer to prolong a grand inevitability — the divine equilibrium that it sought to construct through subtle prods at reality. But most of all, he pressed the fact that the Void and the real world, where man and man walked hand in hand and spoke unrestricted, were intrinsically connected at the very core of their foundations. It was an almost overwhelming read. The kind that leaves a person questioning the very nature of existence.

It was dangerous, in the wrong hands.

* * *

It hurt Emily, hearing him speak of his past. She couldn’t help her upbringing, but she wished she could alleviate the pain of his. But she didn’t let her mind dwell on the things she couldn’t change, instead pouring herself into her study. She was so engrossed in the mystifying report - ideas that seemed to overlap and knot in her mind as she tried to comprehend them - that she was surprised by his appearance when he exited the washroom. Briefly pulled from her puzzling, her lips curved up in a teasing smile. “Pretty-boy.” It suited him. Her fingers twitched, wanting to pull him to her for a kiss, but she resisted, glancing away again as she set the papers aside to keep them dry as she went to get herself ready.

Hiding the marks on her neck presented its own dilemma. She considered just leaving her hair down, hoping the dark tresses could offer some modesty, but even then it wouldn’t be foolproof. So instead she went for a fashionable ascot. Not horribly unusual, so hopefully she could keep her composure about it. How to deal with Corvo… She’d have to tell him about it eventually, but maybe she could at least pretend to have waited more than a few days before taking their otherworldly ally into her bed.

The thought of her haste heated her cheeks. But she hadn’t been able to stop herself — he just felt so good, it felt so right, just… Her fingers trailed over the bruised skin, the faint ache making her bite her lip as she remembered the night before. Her breath came more heavily at the thought of it, and she quickly snatched her hand away, blinking her eyes clear again. _Focus._ She straightened, adjusting her clothes, hiding the marks again. Careful fingers formed a quick sweeping braid that curved over one shoulder and might help hide the worst of it. Her mind, meanwhile, considered this new information.

The Void was inevitable. It was gone for now, but would always come back if given the space to. She couldn’t keep the former god at her side at all times — not without appointing him a bodyguard, at least. Which was an idea. She was reminded suddenly of her mother and Corvo. He’d been her Royal Protector _before_ her lover, of course — but in a way, so was he. _Lir_. Her lips twitched at that. She may be the only person alive who knew that name. Who knew so much about him at all. And there was so much more she wanted to know — what had his childhood been like? His parents? How did he end up where he did? What did he love before he was killed? What made him happy? But of course, those questions had to wait. At least until her official day was over. Before that, she had hours of reports, audiences — even an official tea today, if she remembered correctly. What joy. Truly.

But first, breakfast.

-

Corvo eyed the clock in their little offset section of the dining hall. They were late. Both of them. His first thought was that something was wrong. That Emily was hurt or distressed, that Oliver was trying to help. But surely Emily would send for him if that were the case? ...Or maybe not, she wasn’t particularly fond of asking for help. Oliver would probably send for him, though. The kid had a bit more common sense about those things.

His second thought was that the kid was still working on the report. That wasn’t out of the question; he’d offered a lot of information, and for some reason had stocked up on ink instead of typewriter tape or audiograph cards. But then why would Emily be missing, too?

He spun his knife on its point against his plate, though the experience with the hall’s fine cutlery wasn’t quite as satisfying as using a _real_ knife. Still, it calmed some of his anxiety.

They must be fighting. Though Emily hadn’t been so petty as to skip a meal just to avoid someone for years — not since he’d been a very very awkward third wheel on her garden date with Wyman. Back then, that sort of behavior earned him two days of the silent treatment before she would set aside her anger for the sake of efficiency. But ever since the coup she’d been particularly diligent. If anything, he’d expect her to show up and Oliver to pout elsewhere.

…He should go check on her.

Corvo stood, ready to head for the Empress’s chambers, but halted on his exit as he spotted an increasingly familiar head of black hair nearing the hall, at least half relieved by the young man’s presence.

* * *

The portraits that lined the walls of the grand tower were old, and he knew them like the back of his hand. He knew the paints, the canvas itself, who'd made the canvases — and most of all, he knew who'd painted them. Some were done by Anton Sokolov himself, but the old man hardly had it in him anymore to paint things as complicated as he used to. Some were even older than those; many reached back to generations before Jessamine.

He stopped every now and then in his journey to the dining hall, eyes scanning different pieces of art, reminiscing, a bittersweet nostalgia prodding at the back of his mind. He'd left Emily to her own devices, figuring she probably wanted a little alone time. He certainly didn't.

His hand settled on his neck, still a little dark where the bruising was, but he'd managed to cover most of the evidence of the night before with a black scarf tied in an elegant knot. He wore gloves too, but beneath the gloves it was clear he still hadn't taken off the silver rings that lined both hands. He'd hardly even noticed Corvo's steps, the man was light on his feet, despite being a bit past his prime.

"Lord Protector," he greeted, the corner of his lip upturning smugly. Regardless of his steadily rising levels of anxiety, he always managed to lace his words with a sharp entitlement that was very characteristic of the Outsider. But that wasn't who he was anymore.

* * *

Corvo glanced over the man, taking in his particularly gothic styling with a raised eyebrow, but dismissed it easily enough. He had more important things on his mind. “You’re late.” It was as much accusation as observation, even as he glanced past Oliver to the hallway. “And the Empress? She wasn’t still asleep, was she?” From what she’d told him, she shouldn’t be left to sleep alone — and if she had been he would be very disappointed. This kid was supposed to be protecting her, and here he was wandering the tower like he owned the place and smirking like —

Corvo’s eyes narrowed. The day before Oliver had been downcast and quiet. Keeping himself small, out of the way, somber — perhaps even dejected. And now he seemed in relatively good spirits. He took another glance over the man. No, there were nerves in his stance, it wasn’t all bravado. “...And your report?” He kept a steady gaze on the younger man, watching for tells, unwavering.

* * *

Good spirits? It was far more than that. His features betrayed him, they seemed to be especially treacherous nowadays. They communicated his mood, which was content, satisfied, a myriad of synonyms that ultimately communicated what he'd accomplished: those very _human_ , primal hungers satiated for the time being. But it was more than that. It was Emily. It was always Emily. Only.

He cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back and straightening his posture, almost too stiffly. "She was occupied before I left. We agreed to meet at the dining hall... I..." He stopped himself before he could trip over his own words, thinking for a moment, a silence falling between them.

"...I hope you... don't mind me asking for a bit more time. I overestimated how quickly I can write. It seems my thoughts race faster than my hands. The Void is an enigmatic thing — polarizing. To capture every fine detail takes a considerable amount of effort, and compiling it all into something comprehensible is the most difficult task over all else." He was stalling. More specifically, he was rambling. Distant, struggling to keep the conversation off of Emily as one hand unconsciously moved up to fix his scarf.

* * *

So so many things were suspicious. His whole body language screamed avoidance, and Corvo tried to read between the lines. Occupied… Well that was vague, for one. His silence didn’t help, though he very nearly managed to distract Corvo with talk of the report —

That distraction was lost, however, as Oliver shifted the fabric around his neck.

Sharp eyes spotted small discoloration, and while his first thought was that Emily very well may have strangled the guy, he quickly realized that that was wrong. His lips twisted, a question on the tip of his tongue as he bit it. Was it worth it, to ask? Did he really want to know? Maybe he could convince himself that the former god was having an affair with some random palace servant - maybe even Borne, Void knew the man enjoyed a well-groomed man on the side - but it seemed doubtful.

The Royal Protector stared at the ground, nodding quietly with a grimace. Take it in stride. This was Emily’s choice. Not his.

His nodding became a bit more fervent, mouth even tighter as his jaw jutted.

Yes. Emily’s choice. Not his.

Had it really been just yesterday that he’d considered the man a kindred spirit? Not so much today, with that smarmy grin. Rationally he had to remind himself of the things that had been said the day before, remind himself that his daughter wasn’t being treated as some sort of notch in this man’s bedpost, because it certainly seemed that way.

 _Nope_. No. Emily’s choice. It was her body, it was her room — it was _technically_ her Empire, but that didn’t mean she should be jeopardizing an important diplomatic relationship-

Right. Calm.

Corvo loosened the fists that had formed at his sides, smoothing them over his pants as he tried to still them. “Oliver. ...I’m going to say this once, so I hopefully never have to say it again.” A long slow blink and he was finally able to turn his sharp gaze on the man who _definitely didn’t have his daughter’s marks on his neck_. A long… uncomfortable pause… “If you hurt her…” One hand flexed, but he managed to keep it from clenching — just barely. “...If you distract her from helping the Empire…” He closed his eyes and straightened his spine, rolling his shoulders back. A deep breath, steadying himself. “If you let _her_ distract _you_ from helping the Empire - from stopping the Void-” Fierce eyes turned on the man. “I swear, I will-”

“Father!”

He was immediately distracted, his daughter appearing at the end of the hallway.

* * *

The tension rose just as quickly, if not quicker than his anxiety. He mentally chastised himself for not keeping track of his movements. But it was harder to hide those tiny micro expressions when he wasn't being followed by wisps of the Void, when people didn't see him through fractures of the cosmos. He turned to Corvo reluctantly, listening to him, realizing that he was most certainly catching on.

This wasn't working.

When he began to speak, the gravel undertones of his voice hit Oliver in the chest like an actual brick wall. He was overwhelmed again, his senses spinning, the world whirling around him and threatening to collapse. Not only was he slightly terrified, but he was incredibly guilty. He didn't regret his actions, but he realized he could have gone about them better. He could have gone about a lot of things better.

He knew Corvo knew — how could he not know? Corvo's attention to detail was unrivaled, he couldn't imagine how obsessive he was about who his daughter associated with. Well actually, yes, he could. Emily was the last person Corvo had close to him, the last person he held dear. The last remnants of Jessamine. The thought stirred something in his chest that made him uncomfortable.

His eyes shifted to Emily and widened, two pale green hues studying her from a distance. His mind went blank and for just a moment he felt like he did the moment he saw her that night near the lab: relieved; longing for her touch, the warmth in her palms, the darkness behind her eyes. His expression softened, all of the stiffness in his posture escaping him. She was absolutely, without a shadow of doubt, the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. His expression, as per usual, betrayed him in communicating just how he felt.

* * *

Emily was lucky she’d gotten there in time: he looked terrified, and her father’s hand was flexing at the hilt of his sword. “Father!” She repeated it again, sharply - a warning and an admonishment - and although she didn’t run, her strides were self-assured and imposing.

What had he been thinking? And here, of all places? They were just feet from the dining hall, still bustling with activity: did he think no one would notice?

Her lips were tight and imperious, chin high, as she walked to them. The sweeping braid may have softened her features a bit, but it did nothing to lessen her piercing glare. Her voice was quieter once she was close to the entrance to the dining hall, speaking only to the two men before her. “Stand down, Lord Protector.” It was an order. Her eyes hadn’t left her father, pinning him in her sight, their gazes locked as she held her ground. Her hands itched to grab for Oliver - for Lir - but she masterfully kept them still. Her personal business wasn’t going to become gossip fodder for the tower servants, or the guards, or anyone. When she wanted it out, she’d make it clear.

Corvo looked annoyed, lips still tight, and held her gaze for a tense moment before glancing to Oliver and then away. He shifted from foot to foot, cowed by her dominating stare but irritated nonetheless.

Emily held back a tight smile: there was always something satisfying about beating her father — actually beating him, not him just choosing to give up. She wielded her power carefully with him, wanting his honest input and counsel, but there were times she simply had to put her foot down. And this was one of those times.

She turned to the younger man, glancing over him carefully. He seemed untouched, just shaken. “Are you alright?” Her tone and her gaze were far softer with him than they had been with her father, and she ran a thumb over the tip of her index finger in a small self-soothing motion as she stopped herself from reaching for him, touching his face, making sure he was okay.

“Emily-” Corvo’s voice was part incredulous and part chastising, but it was cut off by another sharp glare.

“When I want your opinion, _Lord Protector_ , I will ask for it.” Her whole body seemed to change when addressing the two different men. With Lir it was careful, soft, protective — and with her father it was a stone wall with no compromises to be made. She stared him down for another moment, making her immovable position clear. “Now. We have important Imperial matters to discuss regarding a certain report. I had hoped to do it over breakfast here, but if you can’t seem to keep your composure perhaps we should relocate to somewhere a little more private where you can have your little tantrum.”

Corvo’s eyes flashed with a warning, but he made no comment.

* * *

There were many things about Emily Kaldwin that Oliver found particularly admirable. He respected how elegant she was, how unpredictable her actions were, how mature she'd grown to be while still maintaining a childlike wonder for the world around her. He admired her ability to silence a man with a single sharp glare more than he probably should have, more than he'd ever actually admit.

He was surprised, as well, by how gentle she'd been towards him, and he felt it flutter in his chest, tugging at the strings of his heart. But he couldn't let that show now; he had work to do. While he hated to admit it, Corvo had a point: this was the Empire at stake. He couldn't let either of them distract one another from their duties. He would tread these foreign grounds with a bit more caution. So he turned to Corvo after a few moments of thought and he stood up straight.

His eyes did not hold any hint of fear, his lips weren't curled into that signature smug grin — he was completely serious. He knew what Corvo was getting at, there was no point in beating around the bush. "... I understand," he spoke suddenly, interrupting their conversation... or perhaps lack thereof.

* * *

Emily’s eyes shot to Oliver with a slight question in them, and then immediately were back on her father, who was also looking to the man, nodding stoically. What did he understand? What had Corvo been saying? No, he’d probably been threatening. Poor Oliver, to be threatened so constantly by someone as imposing as her father. A couple quick blinks and she directed her attention to the matters of the morning.

“Now. Will we take our breakfast in the hall or should I request food be brought to my study?”

Corvo seemed to have calmed slightly and just gave her an irritated glance. “Whatever _Your Imperial Majesty_ desires will suffice, I’m sure.”

Emily hmphed. Really? How petty. But she glanced to the side, allowing herself a couple seconds to breathe and center herself. There were serious things going on in the world at large, and she couldn’t let petty feuds come between herself and the most helpful agent of the Empire. At times she had to set aside her pride for the sake of her people, and this was one of them. Besides which: he was her father. She couldn’t stay mad at him for long, anyway. She may as well speed the process along.

She let out a small sigh. “To be honest, I think Oliver made a good point earlier,” she admitted. “This is sensitive information. We’d do best to talk about it in private.”

Corvo’s stance loosened ever so slightly, and it was clear that both read this as the peace offering it was intended to be. “Very well.” No further barbs were made about tantrums, though Emily was sure it came to her father’s mind — it came to hers, at the very least. And the matter seemed to be dropped. A quick spat, a battle for dominance, acceptance, and then a quick salve for the wounded pride. An efficient argument.


	8. Harbinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “...And there are storms coming.”

They ate efficiently in the room darkened by heavy curtains drawn closed with the sobriety of their intended conversation. After all three had had some sort of sustenance, and Corvo had gotten a good look at the unfinished report, it came to discussion time.

“There was another death at the Academy. A student.” The Royal Protector’s voice was low, somber. He was staring at the table where he curled a napkin into a tight spiral. There was an ominous tone to his words. “They were in possession of a replica of the Heart.”

Emily’s own heart lept to her throat, and she very nearly choked on the water she’d been drinking. A moment of spluttering and then she managed to speak, her voice high and tight. “There’s a replica of the Heart?”

“Not anymore there isn’t.” Corvo grimaced, still not taking his eyes from the fabric on the table.

Emily flexed her hands nervously as she tried to calm herself. No, of course not. And even if there was, it wouldn’t be the same. Silly of her, to let that flash of hope perch even briefly in her chest. She’d had her closure months earlier, saying goodbye to that last scrap of her mother. It was a gift she never could’ve imagined, that chance to make her peace, and yet as soon as the idea was even hinted at that she might speak with her mother again — Emily had lunged for it. And she wasn’t happy about that.

No, the Heart her father spoke of would’ve been something else entirely. It may not have held a spirit at all. Just the cogs and wires that could simulate a beat. ...A disgusting, morbid thing.

She still felt ill at ease. Mostly put off by her own visceral reaction to the thought.

“...And there are storms coming.”

The way he said it, she was sure he couldn’t mean the standard rain or thunderstorms. Her silence prompted elaboration.

“Sweeping in from Pandyssia. And reports from the Eastern Coast claim it’s… off. Unnatural. Though I suppose all reports of the ‘unnatural’ from Whitecliff should be taken with a grain of salt…”

* * *

Oliver listened intently, but he always did. His features twisted in concern, eyes flickering between them. He was contemplating, his gaze shifting around the room as if desperately searching for an answer in the air before him. Had he been in the Void, perhaps it would have worked exactly like that. Perhaps he wouldn't need to put all of the pieces of the puzzle onto a table and assemble them shard by shard. What was worse was that they were missing edges and corners, the ensemble was incomplete, they didn't have the full story.

Hearing about the heart again made his chest tighten and he recognized that feeling as guilt. He could remember haunting Pierro Joplin's dreams, influencing him to sew together flesh and sinew, mold it with metal and wire until it was part mechanism and part living, merging into one abominable amalgamation of love and torturous confusion. He remembered the day the empress' voice carried through walls of thumping skin, when she spoke to him with such kindness and warmth as if coddling a child. Even then, at his worst, he could feel her warmth through layers of ice that coated the whisper of humanity he still had.

He wanted to tell Emily so many things. He wanted to rake his fingers through her hair and reveal to her all of the secrets in the world. But he had a job to do. And hopefully, a whole life ahead of him.

He stood suddenly, from his seat at the fireplace, pulling the map of Isles off of the wall and prying it out of the frame hurriedly. His movements were sporadic because for once he wasn't planning them or compensating, not three steps ahead of himself. Not paced or stiff-backed. He laid it out on Emily's desk, knocking several items to the floor but not seeming to care.

"The Void is, in its most rudimentary form, an immense mass of raw, undirected, cataclysmic power," he explained, his voice lower, losing the sharp edges, the sultry undertones. "Without a representative, there is no means of translating that energy into the world. There is no connection, no common ground in which it can safely tamper with society and the direction that fate takes. Which would be acceptable if not for the gaping cracks in the world where oblivion seeps into reality, dripping down the walls like muddy rainwater on a stormy night. The Void is-" He was drawing on the map, taking the files that Corvo had set down and beginning to mark locations down hastily.

"The Void _is_ a storm. The Void is a fearsome entity clawing its way into the realm of the living without realizing that there is no balance between these two domains. The Void is alone and some might even say that it is _angry_ , hungrily devouring any life that it can take and snuffing out candles in the night — blotting out the moon and the stars, the clouds in the sky and leaving nothing but _nothing_ in its wake, it is-" He furrowed his brows, eyes widening, locks of hair falling into his face as the picture became clearer.

"...starving," he whispered, staring down at all of the incidents. "...Did you know," he slowly stood straight and his brows furrowed, "six out of ten students that attend the Academy of Natural Philosophy are deeply intrigued by the nature and composition of the Void?" He glanced up at the two of them, swallowing softly, all too aware of the cluster of marks.

Still, he felt the other even when he wasn't looking, even though it wasn't marked on the map. The notch in the hills where the mines were rich with silver and the grounds were tainted with the blood of the innocent. He tried not to look there, though. He'd put his past behind him.

* * *

Emily was rather taken aback by the surge of motion, and as he moved and spoke she felt a thrumming in her very bones — a creeping dread, a chill that seemed to approach from the east, racing faster than the storm. _Cataclysmic power_. She’d been in the Void, and there she’d experienced its electric tension, this feeling that it was always ready to strike even when things seemed slow or frozen. There was an energy that hung in the air and inhabited every slab of stone, silent screams condensed to an eerie hum. The dreams had only added to her wariness of the place — the thing. No, not wariness: terror. The purest form of fear she had ever experienced.

“Are you implying that this storm has been… summoned? Called here by students?” Corvo’s brow was furrowed, and Emily shared his confusion, though she found it hard to concentrate on his words.

Her mind buzzed angrily, a series of questions and anxieties, and as she closed her eyes to take a deep breath, calm herself, she could’ve sworn she saw the storm itself for a brief moment. She didn’t jump, muscles tensing and holding her body still despite her surprise, but her eyes had opened again in an instant. She wanted to reach for him - slip off her gloves and weave fingers with his, chase off these chilling thoughts - but that wouldn’t solve anything.

Ignoring her father’s question she flexed gloved hands and asked, “What can we do? How can we prepare?”

“There has to be a person causing this, or a group — a cult? Another group like the Eyeless? If we find them, maybe we can stop this.” Corvo spoke logically, but she knew there was no logic to the Void.

* * *

Oliver went to answer Corvo's question but his eyes darted to Emily's form, the way she shuddered and looked away, clearly uncomfortable, clearly conflicting with herself. He furrowed his brows at the sight and quickly composed himself. Becoming unhinged was not an option, he knew Emily was a very empathetic person, whether she realized it or not. The last thing he wanted to do was contribute to her stresses.

He stepped forward away from the desk, sitting beside her once more at the small table that'd been brought in for their breakfast. His hand found hers, settling over it carefully. It was a subtle gesture, but the least he could do was let her know he was there. "No the students aren't summoning it... Not knowingly. The last remaining cults teeter off the edges of society, loose and hopeless. The Eyeless were the most prominent - the most _funded_ - without them in power anymore, the other cults are dwindling in numbers. Natural philosophers will travel far and wide, to the outermost reaches of the empire and beyond to retrieve information that might better their understanding of the world and its workings. They seek _knowledge_ , not power. Conquering the Void is not their aim, instead it is rather to comprehend something incomprehensible."

Oliver sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, taking a moment to think before speaking again. "So they surround themselves with artifacts and trinkets they find scattered around the Isles, my Mark carved into their ancient surfaces. Names have power and I believe the two of you understand that far more than the vast majority. In this case, the saying is quite literal. My runes and bonecharms provide the Void with tiny cracks in the slab from which it may spill out into reality. Typically, I could control that. I was its mediator, the one who directed the power, the one who determined who would act as the windows between worlds as to keep it at bay. But now the Void is empty, desolate, with no consciousness to be at one place at one time, no representative to speak for its vast, benign plains."

* * *

His hand eased some of her tension, but not nearly as much as she’d like. Emily closed her eyes, wanting to wrap herself around him as she had that horrible night — but this wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t the Void in her mind, these were the facts of the world. She shook her head, blinking her eyes back open even as the ice in her bones spread. Six in ten. Curiosity that welcomed the Void, tried to explore it — it wasn’t something they could just stop. The Abbey had been trying for centuries, and what good had it done them? Her head cocked to the side for a moment, though her hope was slim. “What about the music boxes?” It wouldn’t stop the storm - she doubted anything could - but maybe if they applied strategic placement they could prevent a death or two. Weaken the ties artifacts held to the Void. But no, that would cause an uproar. Her reign had been particularly generous with the Academy, particularly fond of invention and study, perhaps a bit too lenient on heresy in the halls of scholarship; an invasion like that would anger a lot of people. Important people.

Drawing away from his comforting grasp, she found her head in her hands, incredibly weary. She wouldn’t ask for comfort, as much as she wanted it. She was drawing into herself again. She had to endure this, she had to be strong — the figurehead of the Empire. Her face went smooth, stony, chin rising as her hands folded neatly in front of her. No time for self-pity. No time for moping. It was time for planning and action.

* * *

He thought again, piecing things together in his mind, struggling to pull apart the information he had to work with and assemble some kind of answer. But he knew far too well how difficult it was to explain something as ambiguous as the Void. "Music boxes wouldn't work the way you'd like them to. They might distort the Void, but really, all they can do is fracture the intimate bond between a Marked and the energy that leaks through the Void and into them. They do not banish the Void completely, that would be impossible. What the Void seeks is equilibrium: as above, so below. It needs a counterbalance. Otherwise it would just swallow the world completely."

Oliver stopped when he caught sight of her movements, not continuing. His eyes flickered over her form and though he was obviously concerned, there was something else gleaming in his gaze. A mixture of things - admiration, yearning, desire - brows knitted together against his forehead. She was so resilient, even when the odds were against her she held her chin high, she spoke with voice unwavering, a tongue so sharp it could cut through diamonds. It was baffling, how someone so incredibly strong inside and out could be reduced to breathy moans and hushed desperation.

He was so lost in thought that the moment itself escaped him. He memorized her features, her jawline, her neck still faintly discolored by the force of his lips, her almond eyes and carefully shaped brows, the raise of her cheek bones, the bow of her lips. Everything in the wavering light of candles and a dying fireplace. Gorgeous. She was the most graceful creature he'd ever laid eyes on, like a roaming feline on the golden plains of the Pandyssian continent. She never fit in amongst nobles, her features too bold, her movements too methodical; she was a gem amongst rubble.

* * *

Emily stared at steady hands as she listened, distantly wondering if she might turn to stone herself if she stayed still enough. Would it be a relief, to be stone as Corvo had been? He never talked about his time trapped as Delilah’s statue. She’d never felt brazen enough to ask. She knew it hurt him to speak of those days - of his failure as Royal Protector - and it wasn’t necessary for her to see the pain twist his features for her sake.

She focused on her breath, counting as she breathed in and out, letting his words enter a calm mind. Balance. That made sense. The Void needed a touch of their world as much as their world needed a touch of the Void. All things in equilibrium. It lacked a counterbalance.

…So they needed to provide one.

She wasn’t happy about the prospect, but could had to wonder of Corvo’s feelings on the matter. She glanced to her father to find-

He stared at the man beside her, mouth in a tight scowl. But not in concern. He looked angry. Or just… thoroughly irked. Glaring furiously. She turned as well, even as Corvo cleared his throat vigorously, only to find a pair of pale green eyes dazedly staring at her... neck?

She felt a slight blush creeping from her chest, and adjusted the fabric against her skin, pursing her own lips as she quickly looked away. And they’d been doing so well.

Corvo cleared his throat again, louder, and she shot her own glare at him.

“Father, I thought we already discussed this-” Her tone was warning, but it didn’t do much good.

“Let the man defend himself, Emily, he’s not your pet — stop treating him like one.”

She felt affronted. How dare he. Her mouth opened to say something, but she felt at a loss for words. Corvo hadn’t even spared her a glance, his eyes still trained on Oliver. Words raced through her head, perching on her tongue, ready to call her father out for the way he was treating Oliver — the way he was treating _her_.

* * *

The clearing of a throat didn't reach his ears the first time. He wasn't focused on her neck itself so much as the entirety of her. He wanted to capture her where she stood. While he still had the privilege of doing so. It was only when she spoke up against her father that he snapped out of his reverie. His eyes shot towards Corvo, the look in his eyes almost venomous.

He spoke before she could, "I favored you Corvo Attano, when the streets ran with muddied waters and scattered limbs gnawed by plague rats. I gifted you with the ability to change the tides of fate and save Emily Kaldwin from perverse nobility and asked for _nothing_ in return. I respected the rules you set in place, I acted accordingly from the moment I stepped foot into the tower and had I not met Emily by pure _chance_ and chance alone, I would not have sought her out before you granted me permission. Now I am not asking, I am _demanding_ that you, and please pardon my language, get the fuck off my back. I am not younger than you, I am not your subordinate, you may be Royal Protector, but I am four thousand years old, and excuse me for being so bold but I think I am a damn fine candidate to court your daughter so long as she, an adult might I add, is consenting," he snapped, brows furrowed dangerously, hands gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were turning white.

Had the circumstances been different, he would have held his tongue. But now he knew what had to be done. He knew exactly what was necessary to stop all of this. Which meant ultimately that the life he envisioned would never come to fruition. He wouldn't learn by experience, he wouldn't taste all of the flavors life had to offer him, suffer blissfully through the mundane hardships of the average man. Most importantly, he wouldn't be growing old with Emily, as he had imagined himself doing, regardless of whether or not they were romantic. He just wanted to be at her side, he yearned for her presence. If he bored her and she took another suitor, he would accept that. But what he could not accept was that even after all of these years, Corvo hadn't shown the slightest bit of gratitude, or at the very least, some form of respect.

He didn't want to be treated like a god, revered or given special treatment. But he wanted to be treated like an equal. Frankly, he had no idea what Corvo had against him. Part of him suspected it was the dogma of the Abbey, another part of him felt something indescribable. An emotion that nestled between guilt and sorrow. He knew things, like the locations of hidden treasures, the great adventures of lost heroes, or the lonely life of the Royal Protector who still hadn't taken on another romance after the deep intimacy he shared with Jessamine. Who's only reason to wake up in the morning was the future of his pride and joy, Emily Kaldwin.

* * *

Emily’s brows shot up and she turned undeniably surprised eyes on Oliver as he spoke. She… hadn’t been expecting that. In the least. She found a small smile coming - unbidden - at his choice of language, and she bit her lips to keep them closed, though the lift in them was still evident. As he went on, she found herself oddly proud of him. Some smug part of her was reminded of her own sentiments; he didn’t need Corvo’s permission, he needed hers. There was a long tense pause. She found herself gazing at him in wonder for a moment before glancing to Corvo for his response.

He had a wry smile on his lips, eyes alight, and when he spoke it was to Emily, though his eyes only flicked away from Oliver briefly, his voice no gruffer than usual. “As I said… Let him defend himself.” He didn’t seem angry. If anything, he looked affirmed, as though he’d been waiting for such a response — though there was certainly a touch of amusement in his expression, even if no one but Emily would be able to spot it.

She wondered if he had wanted such a reaction — not necessarily an outburst, but perhaps just some push back. A curious part of her wondered if it was some kind of test. After all: Emily herself was often quite adamant. Maybe he wanted Oliver to prove he could stand up in the face of someone as intimidating as the Royal Protector. She had, admittedly, been a bit blindsided by his assertiveness. ...Maybe she _had_ been a bit… over-protective.

Corvo finally looked to her pointedly, raising an eyebrow, but didn’t respond to Oliver. And it seemed he didn’t plan to.

Her eyelids twitched a moment as she resisted rolling her eyes, running her tongue over the back of her teeth to keep her childish exasperation from voicing itself. “...Well.” Her voice held just a touch of sarcasm. “If you don’t mind, my time is limited. Can we return to the matter at hand?” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead looking down at her hands, her voice with a forced casual lilt. “If possible, I’d prefer not to sentence some poor human to thousands of years of torture and torment. Aside from the cruelty of it, there’s also no way to guarantee they’ll be… well… not Delilah. Do we have alternatives?”

* * *

Admittedly, he hadn't seen that coming. His emotions clouded his foresight and judgment, especially when Emily was involved. He sat back and let out a small sigh, eyes flickering to her when she finally spoke and broke the awful, somewhat awkward silence that'd fallen between them.

He felt like a weight had been lifted. Though not nearly as heavy as the burden of most likely having to return to the Void, it was at the very least comforting, He was grateful — for both of them, for Billie Lurk, and even Daud, the whispered name still lingering in his ear, against the length of his neck. The breath had been cold, it smelled like wet stone after a rain in the Month of Harvest.

In these few days, if he'd learned anything, it was to respect himself. Though perhaps he was a less suitable candidate for courting now that he was probably sentenced to another several thousand years in a vast, boundless oblivion. The thought made his stomach turn, made his fingertips ache and twitch just faintly. His mouth was dry, his throat was tight. He visibly tensed as though his father's hand were there, lingering and threatening to fall against his cheek until he saw red. He pushed past that, though.

Months ago, he would have rather slit his own throat than step foot in the Void ever again, the mere thought alone sent him into a trembling stupor. But now? Knowing that he had to, knowing it was a necessity, well aware that there wasn't much time left, there was no other choice.

"... The solution is perfectly clear Emily. There were eight that I marked, connected to the Void by the tether I tied to them. Touched by another world. One of them could take my place, but this is my choice. I am choosing not to subject another to the cruelties of that existence, it's simple... I'll return. The balance will be restored, the Abbey will have its whipping boy, the cogs of the universe will turn as though brand new, perhaps even better than before... And you will be the best empress the Isles have ever seen." He spoke evenly, despite the tension building, despite his eyes that flickered away from the conversation or the way he twiddled his thumbs beneath the table.

* * *

Emily stared at him, her brow furrowing slightly, looking mildly confused. She blinked.

“No.”

It wasn’t said vehemently, or passionately, just spoken as though correcting someone who’d just claimed the sky was yellow. And she _was_ correcting him. Because what he said was obviously not true. He said eight. Her, Corvo, Daud, Delilah, and… four others. Which meant at least one of those four could easily still be out there.

Perhaps following the path of the storm? It would hit Dunwall, of course - and they would really have to come up with some tower defenses, if they were in need of them - but maybe there were other cities it was hitting especially hard. She could choose a few trusted agents to search — maybe Billie could help, with her… odd gifts. Send out agents, find the other four Marked - however many remained - and choose a sacrifice. She didn’t like the idea of sacrificing anyone, but if she had to do so it certainly wasn’t going to be anyone in this room.

She turned to Corvo, ready to issue the order, and found him looking at Oliver with narrowed eyes, face inscrutable. All traces of amusement were gone from his face, but so were all hints of anger. He couldn’t truly be considering this an option, could he? It wasn’t. It wasn’t an option; it was ridiculous. Oliver may have thought he knew everything, but he was a pessimist — a self-hating tortured soul with a martyr complex. A _masochist_. She’d find another way, and he couldn’t dissuade her. She was the Empress of the Isles. And if she needed to lock him up to keep him from his stupid suicidal savior plans, she would. Keep him safe. For as long as it took to find someone else.

_Or until the world ends._

The thought was dismissed immediately. No. The world wasn’t going to end. This was a complex problem but it had a simple solution. They just needed to get started as soon as possible.

“We need agents to start searching for the other four Marked-”

“Three.”

She faltered. “Three?”

Corvo hadn’t looked away from Oliver. “The other three Marked. One of the four is dead already.”

He was disconcertingly certain of that fact.

“...Three, then. Find who we can. Choose a sacrifice. Start looking for other places of odd occurrences.” She turned to Oliver. “Who else did you Mark?” Her voice remained level — calm, self-assured. But in a corner of her mind she was already planning to make him promise. To promise her not to do it himself. To give it time. If he- ...If he _felt_ about her, the way he claimed to - and she was very nearly positive he did - he would promise her. They may not have _much_ time, but they had time. The storm wasn’t the end, just a harbinger. _They had time._

* * *

Oliver quietly decided to himself that they most definitely did not have as much time as Emily most likely thought they did. The storm was the end. He could make no promises.

But he could entertain her. He could play her game, as it was more convenient than having her order him into a prison from which he'd have to escape. He knew how much she valued those close to her, as well as the lengths she'd go to keep them safe.

His eyes, pale green hues, shifted towards Corvo and an almost knowing expression painted his features. His voice was quieter, and took on a certain tone. It could have been defeat, or perhaps it was acceptance. He knew his fate. Emily had given him the literal time of his life. He owed her this much, to give her these final days in return. To express how deeply he felt for the Empress of the Isles, Emily Kaldwin. He was amused if anything, by how the most intriguing hero in all of the Isles could be so fundamentally flawed. Humans: such intricate little things.

"...Two," he clarified, glancing between them. He did not open his lips to talk of the lonely rat boy that spent his days wandering the streets of Gristol. Begging, knees knobby from the weight of himself against the pavement and clothing worn and tattered, falling apart where he stood while noble folk looked to him and tilted their chins skyward, scoffing in distaste. It was a story he didn't think they'd want him to recall, though he had many of those he kept locked away within him, relished memories of the past that he clung to even in this pitifully limited form he now took.

Instead, he settled with a moment of silence, reverence for the small child that he related to. He, a cold, calloused monstrosity of the Void, had been touched deeply by the scavenging little street urchin whose shoes hardly fit and creaked as he stepped. "...There is one who remains in Serkonos. A member of the Oracular Order. Her name is Sianna Devries and she hides a dirty secret from her sisters, shrouded by a cloak comprised of the Void itself, distant and weary. She ages now, faster than before, she notices that her bones aren't what they used to be, that her skin has begun to loosen along the shrinking muscles and tendons. She is your best bet at winning this race," he explained, leaning forward and setting his chin on clasped hands.

He was lying to her and it was genuinely painful, a deep aching at the center of his chest. But in her state of delusion she would likely grasp at any straw, or the very _thought_ of that straw existing. He needed to get to Shindaerey Peak, he needed to seal the crack in the slab; he couldn't do that behind her bars. Finding his remaining Marked ones would be near impossible within the amount of time they had left, which was a little more than a week, week and a half _at best_. He wasn't even certain they were still alive.

* * *

Two. Just two. And from that, a single name. Her hope had dwindled to a small thread, but it rushed ever stronger for it: a river that could pass through the eye of a needle. She couldn’t give up now. She clung to this last scrap of information, mind already making plans. Pulling a blank piece of paper toward her, she scrabbled for a writing utensil and immediately began marking things down. “Then you’re off to Serkonos to find her.”

They’d need to take the fastest ships they had, as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, probably, just for the sake of acquiring a crew. She knew Corvo had some sailors on his payroll, though perhaps not enough to fully staff a ship, but this was a mission about speed. A small ship would do, if it was quick. She needed to make him promise as soon as possible. Even then… “Corvo, you’ll go with him.”

Corvo looked to her, blinking that intense concentration from his eyes as he took in what his daughter said. “Emily, I can’t leave you here alone-”

“I’ll be fine,” she snapped, before clamping teeth down on her lip and leveling her voice. “You’ll be quick - get in there, make the sacrifice, get back here as soon as possible - and everything will be fine.” She finished her quick notes and stilled her hand. One deep breath. Calm. Level. _Don’t make this desperate._ She glanced to her Royal Protector. “I’ve managed without you before, Father. I think I can survive a week or two.” She said it assuredly, but doubt did color the edges of her mind, no matter how much she refused to acknowledge it. Regardless: she’d live. She might suffer... but she’d live.

Corvo’s reluctance was undisguised, but the fire of her determination was visible enough that he seemed to bite his tongue. He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to Oliver before returning to Emily. Eyes held hers for a heavy moment before he nodded, and uncrossed his arms, taking the few steps to lift Emily’s notes from the table. “I’ll go make the arrangements.”

She stopped him with a hand on his wrist, and he looked to her with a sharply focused gaze, that softened at the warmth in her eyes. “Thank you.” _I love you._ They may not have said it as often as they could, especially not in the company of others, but they both knew it. She saw his jaw tense, and she could tell he was holding himself back.

And then she could feel the moment he thought ‘fuck it’ and just slung his free hand around her and leaned down to press a kiss firmly to the top of her head. Her face automatically scrunched the way it had when he’d done such things when she was younger, but the smile still spread over her lips. His voice was low and the rumble comforting as he added, “We have to talk later, Emily. Alone.” She didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was shooting a look at Oliver, though she could only assume the intention of that look. A warning? A knowing glance? Her eyes were fixed on her own hands, the small smile still lingering as she wondered.

* * *

Oliver did not move from his spot at the table. He had just signed his life away, officially. All of the aspirations he had, the hopes for the future, to make the Empire better, greater than it ever had been before, vanished before him. Turned to dust, floating aimlessly off in the distance as though they were nothing but a dream he had many nights ago. He knew once he met with the Void again, all of this would feel that way. A bittersweet memory to look back on, that last glimmering sliver of humanity he would cling to until the icy fixtures of oblivion devoured the last remaining hope tucked away within him. He would remember her.

Her scent, her skin, her lips and those piercing dark eyes of hers. The way her lashes fluttered against his neck so pleasantly, the darkness his kisses left behind along the expanse of chest. Her voice, hands prepped for the ensemble of noblemen and public figures she met with routinely. She wore many masks but he was one of few to look upon her face and see a grin. That, he hoped, would be enough to bare another few thousand years in the Void, or however long he'd need to be there.

Watching the two of them made him feel just the slightest bit better about the situation, eyes flickering between them with a small grin tugging at his lips. In some odd way he was proud of Corvo, of what he'd accomplished and the tribulations he had to overcome. Everything for the sake of the empire, everything for the sake of his daughter. He'd endured so much and even at his ripe old age he still managed to watch over her, a crow on her shoulder, better than any well learned, up and coming guardsmen ever could. He truly was a marvel.

When he caught Corvo's gaze however, he felt his stomach drop. He knew that the Royal Protector was onto him. Emily had a wild imagination, at her most desperate she could be blinded by hope. But Corvo? Corvo was a realist, he was gifted with the ability to see things for what they were. Oliver knew he'd been seen through, but he did not wear an expression of fear, regret, or even remorse.

He looked defeated but peaceful, giving a single, slow nod to the elder and turning to focus on the flames that licked at the bricks of the fireplace, studying the way they danced along the wood below. How fragile it was, a bucket of water would reduce it to nothing but embers and smoke.

Perhaps he would have to speak with Corvo too, alone.

* * *

Another squeeze around her shoulders and Corvo excused himself, off to ready a vessel and crew, prepare for a voyage the next day. As the door closed, Emily turned her attention to Oliver.

“You have to promise me.” Her eyes burned into him, fiercely willful, and she grabbed for his hands, holding them in hers. She could feel the newly-formed callouses from his training, so different - so much more _human_ \- than how they’d felt in the Void. If he could just _stay_ human. “You have to _promise_ that you won’t follow through on this- this _martyrdom fantasy_.” She spoke the words with scorn thickly covering her anxiety.

Heart pounding angrily in her chest, she summoned every bit of authority she could manage. Her eyes were bright, perhaps eerily so, a mix of determination and desperation. Her words were firm. “I forbid you from sacrificing yourself.” _You’ve already suffered enough._ She would make Corvo promise, too. Corvo would wield the blade. Oliver was there to locate and confirm the identity of their target, maybe perform any ritualistic bits and pieces that might be necessary, but nothing more. He would not touch the weapon. She wouldn’t let him. He was self-destructive, and she needed to protect him from himself.

* * *

It was her eyes that broke him. Not the firmness in her voice, the demanding tone it took. It was the look she gave him, desperate but certain, confident and trembling. Even if he was a bit offended by his actions being reduced down to some "martyrdom fantasy," he understood her. He knew she only wanted to protect the few people she held dearest to her. He respected that. But he could not put aside the Empire because of some inexplicable attraction he had to her. More than the Empire: he could not betray every living soul in this waking world for the selfish desires he had in mind.

He was hesitant, gaze flickering over her features, hand slowly reaching up to meet her cheek, thumb brushing over her lips as he silently thought of his next words. He wore a steady expression, but it always faltered just a bit in her presence. He didn't respond to her, didn't even open his mouth to speak.

Frankly, he didn't want to have to leave her on a broken promise. So he was at a crossroads, on one hand he could tell her he wouldn't do what she very damn well knew he would and he could play into her hands and entertain _her_ fantasy, or he could risk being locked away and watch the world crumble around him as they desperately struggled to find the last remaining Marked ones in the very little time they had left.

* * *

His silence was off-putting, and the longer he didn’t speak the further her heart moved up her throat. She could sense the blade hanging over them — a twin-bladed guillotine poised to fall. Eyes darted between his, and she could feel her walls crumbling even as she tried to keep calm. “Please.” Her voice was low, quiet, almost with the tone of a warning. She wouldn’t lose him. She couldn’t. It was silly, frivolous, trivial — these _feelings_ that shouldn’t be there but were.

Her grip tightened and she looked down at their hands, closing her eyes as she tried to keep her emotions at bay. “ _Please_.” Desperation colored her whispered words and creased her brow. She clenched her jaw, finally opening her eyes again to stare into his. She held his gaze as she slipped from her chair, falling to her knees at his feet, shaking her head. _You can’t put me through this. Don’t put me through this._ Her chest ached, and her throat was sore as all her energy went toward keeping her composure. The breath she drew was shaky, and her mouth opened to speak. “I-” She quickly shut it as she felt her voice waver, and she ducked her face, pressing her forehead to their interlocked hands. She could feel the tremor of her skin, but stood no chance of stilling her hands.

He wouldn’t promise her. But she _needed_ him to tell her — to tell her it would be okay. She felt pathetic. But she was too selfish, too needy, to hate herself for it.

He wouldn’t swear to her. But maybe she could buy them some time. “Just-” Her words caught in her throat, and when they returned they were hoarse. “Just come back alive.” She wouldn’t ask him to swear not to do it. But to give it a chance, to put it off, to at least _attempt_ another solution. She knelt at his feet like it was _his_ empire: supplicant. Begging. Her voice was just above a whisper. “ _Please_ , Lir — just come back alive.”

* * *

Seeing her unhinged like this was disconcerting. Untangling her, reducing her to her rawest, most vulnerable point was fun in the right context, but now? Where she sat on her knees with her heart open to him, eyes full of desperation, he couldn't deny her that trivial luxury. A falsehood, a promise made to be broken. They were both most certainly aware of that.

But he caved in, his chest aching in guilt and sympathy and remorse, every negative aspect of getting close to someone all bundled up and knotting at the core of him like a stab from the inside out. He took a deep breath that trembled on his lips. His eyes flickered over her and in the lighting of the flames only feet away they took on an almost golden hue. "...I won’t leave you, Emily. I will return with my life. I will return for _you_." He spoke carefully, brows upturned, hands tightening around hers.

"But there is a chance, Emily, that none of this will work. That the whole world will come crumbling down around us even if I do manage to find her. If that's the case, this will be our last night. And I want you to know that I couldn't think of a better person to spend my last peaceful night with than the Empress herself..." He smiled bittersweetly, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth nervously.

He didn't know if it was the pressure of the situation or just her in general that spiked his anxiety, but now she wasn't the only one with quivering hands.

* * *

He could be lying to her. If he was being sensible he _was_ — she was being horribly selfish, _destructively_ so, but she wanted so desperately to believe him. To clutch at the smallest possible spark of hope and fan it into a roaring flame. She felt sick. Angry at herself, and angry at the world, and so so angry at the Void for putting her in this situation to begin with. This was why she didn’t get attached. Too much of her needed him. It was too dangerous. It was affecting her decision-making, but she couldn’t bring herself to take it back. She was _aching_ , her chest feeling hollow, anxiety bubbling up into her throat, and the guilt ate at her but she forced it away with sheer reckless hope. Her mind wouldn’t even consider the alternative. No - it couldn’t _comprehend_ an alternative; no words, no images formed. It wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it.

...How could she possibly function for the rest of the day with _this_ looming over her? Their last night? How was this fair? Her life had been completely overturned in less than a month. A whirlwind that had ripped through her and uprooted everything. Why was she _feeling_ so damned much?

She had never been a pious person — to the Abbey, to the Outsider; she’d recited strictures to the satisfaction of her tutors, she’d plucked runes from altars but never knelt at them. But here, now, as the rage and sadness and loss and- ...and _love_ devastated her, she averted her eyes and touched her lips to his hands like they were holy. She worshipped him for the briefest moment; not for being a god, but for being human.

Her eyes didn’t meet his as they struggled through the pain that throbbed in her. She strangled it. Destroyed it. Built up a levee of resolve and determined force that would endure. The small soft moment passed. She dropped his hands. Rising to her feet, raising her chin, there was fervent intensity in her set jaw and fierce gaze. She glanced down at him, every inch regal, and brought a hand to his cheek.

When she kissed him, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t yearning, it wasn’t hopeful, it wasn’t pleading. It was possessive. Protective. She wasn’t letting him go, and no one - nothing - could make her.


End file.
